


Spit & Out

by Glossolalia



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Angry Sexual Content, Backstabbing boyfriend, Blood and Injury, Eventual Smut, Fashion & Couture, Guns, Keith is a Bond Boy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Spies & Secret Agents, Traitor, Violence, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2018-08-12 13:10:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7935991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glossolalia/pseuds/Glossolalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shiro is the head spy at the Garrison, and while on the same team, Keith feels more like a bed warmer than a colleague.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Stef, I did it. Stef, for you. I did it for you. Someone spits in someone's mouth, for you.

### i.

It wasn't that Shiro typically needed saving. It was more or less the fact that—on the rare occasion that he might—it was Keith who found himself straddling a humming Yamaha SR-400 while lingering outside Shiro's calculated place of exit.

_He's late, again._

On this afternoon in particular, Keith was waiting with eyes flicked toward a factory loading dock, half-expecting an explosion. The idea drew his lips into a line. He'd just bought his pair of Belgrade Chelsea Boots, and the thought of them scuffed made him close his eyes and deflate. The transition to moneyed fashion was inebriating sometimes, but there he was. To add insult to injury, his pants were blush, jacket primped like a prep school boy's, and his haircut had cost him three fingers and his first born. Keith was glad he didn't like children.

He cracked his neck and ruffled the hair along the back of his neck.

If Shiro didn't show up to make his getaway soon, then he'd have to go in after him. Keith impatiently smacked the tip of his boot against the pavement, rolling back his shoulders as he reminded himself to endure. Shiro was particularly good at surviving.

Kind of.

If one could count a severed limb as a success.

Keith did, anyway.

"Come on, big man," he murmured and leaned over his handlebars. His matte helmet was postured on his lap, and the exhaust fumes were building.

Another prolonged silence scathed the boy. Keith finally cut the motor with a hard exhale, mentally preparing for a mess. He tied his helmet to the seat alongside its mate and threw his leg over the side. Keith's hip popped, and he straightened out his jacket with a tug and double-breast smooth over.

He took one step forward, and like a trigger, the backend of the bomb factory exploded into a storm of curling flames. Earsplitting, fire bubbled forward and sharply receded into the open port.

Keith stopped as his hair blew back from his face, and he blinked. In the distance, Shiro rounded a corner of the dying building and sprinted toward him, blood covering a quarter of his face and black suit jacket tattered beyond repair.

_Right, so never mind._

Keith stepped back toward his bike and plopped down. He cranked the motor and exhaled, looking entirely unconcerned and unimpressed.

"Urgency, Keith!" Shiro called out.

He didn't look at Shiro when he tossed the helmet at him and yanked his on. In the distance, he could see Sendak's android subordinates tearing toward them with laser guns.

Keith unfolded the lever and kicked down. The motorcycle shook itself alive, and Keith booted the kickstand. Shiro's weight plopped down behind him, and he glided a hand toward Keith's hip. Leaning forward, Shiro wrapped his other arm around his waist, and this effectively caused Keith to switch gears and tear out of the parking lot.

They sped down the abandoned road, Shiro's hands climbing along Keith's ribs. He squeezed him beneath his jacket and leaned forward to yell over the wind and motor.

"Why do you have your bike?"

"Because you don't know how to get into a car."

Shiro thought, and suddenly, he remembered.

"One time. It was _one_ time."

The first time Keith pulled up to drive Shiro from a job, he'd been in his red Ferrari. This Ferrari was brand new and somewhat of a Garrison company gift for not only putting up with Shiro, but also, for Keith's impatience behind his slowly climbing rank. Keith had rolled down the window, looking particularly good that day in his ugly boat shoes and Versace sunglasses. He even managed a coolly delivered ' _jump in_.'

Shiro climbed through the window. Keith's window.

"Yeah, and you scuffed the door."

Shiro's hand crept beneath a pectoral and remained there. Keith smiled to himself and felt how each expansion of his lungs pressed to his palm.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Back to the hotel," Keith explained. "Hunk and Pidge need to reconfigure your arm, and you're bleeding."

The hotel or the Garrison, depending on how serious you took yourself, was their headquarters. Keith, in fact, didn't take himself serious enough, and neither did the rest of their unit. They'd initially been thrown together as a ragtag afterthought. Much like Keith's Ferrari, they'd existed together as a form of pacifying. It was by absolute coincidence (see: God's irony) that they functioned as the Garrison's most capable team. Originally MIT students, the government had hand selected them solely to collect them. Their masterminds were Pidge and Hunk, and their strength, luck and devastating good looks fell on the shoulders of Shiro.

Keith—well, he was still figuring out his role.

The underground garage beneath what looked to be a literal hotel opened. Considering they hadn't been followed, Keith assumed whatever mission Shiro had been on wasn't all that important. That or the explosion had obliterated whatever vehicles Zarkon had. Keith decided it was the latter, both for the sake of his time and Shiro's ego. He liked to believe someone saw them as a threat.

Parked, Keith tugged off his helmet and held it at his hip. He shifted a half-look toward the bleeding Shiro, but he didn't linger on it. He walked toward the elevator instead.

"You're so good at this," Keith said.

"You don't mean that."

No. He didn't.

They took the elevator, but it was too quiet, even with the teeming classical piano. Keith had heard the same notes so many times he mentally hummed along to them. Shiro didn't say anything, and Keith continued to keep his lips pursed.

"So what happen—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Keith didn't take well to being shut down.

He tried again.

"Did you forget it again?"

"Keith."

"You _did_."

Shiro clenched his jaw, and he swallowed the accusation as gracefully as he could. He reached up and touched the coagulating blood along his temple. Shiro sighed and tilted his head back, but the mirror on the ceiling forced him to look at his shame.

They reached their secured floor, and the doors opened with a condemning ding. Shiro closed his eyes, and with Keith staring at him, waited for the greeting.

"I can't believe you forgot the gun again," Hunk said, standing there as if he'd been waiting.

He'd definitely been waiting.

"I didn't forget it," Shiro said and walked past them, entering a predominantly blue toned laboratory. The equipment droned and gurgled around them, climbing high in the shapes of tubes and holographic desks.

Keith had long since gotten over the novelty of the place. That said, he still found it pretty cool that he could spend the afternoon mindlessly wandering a multi-million-dollar nerd roost on a hoverboard and then ride the elevator two floors up to have a martini. Usually, said martini was lunch. Usually, said lunch was with Shiro. Keith blamed their coincidental schedules, but he found himself in the man's company more than anyone else's.

Pidge was standing at the work table, hands still on the very gun Hunk had referenced. It was as if they were shielding its white barrel from Shiro's blatant ignorance.

"Do you know how much this gun cost to make?" they asked, too calm.

Shiro refused to look their way.

_Guilt._

They continued.

"Do you realize you're the only person who can use this gun? That we wired it so that it's as interconnected with your musculoskeletal system as that arm you love so much? No one else can use this gun, Shiro. This government sanctioned, million-dollar..."

"...nerd gun," Lance said, stepping in from the lounge with a cup of coffee clenched between both hands. He was wearing an orange ascot and a pair of white pants that were much too tight.

Lance was a part of the team, too, Keith guessed.

He was good at code or something. A hacker, maybe. Keith didn't know.

Once he'd heard he was an assassin, but that was yet to be seen.

"I'm sorry, Pidge," Shiro finally managed, beaten into submission by the fact he was a Good Guy. "The arm is enough, though."

"You're bleeding."

"People bleed, Pidge," Lance added.

"And you are a genius, Lance," they murmured and lifted the gun, opening their mouth as if prepared to explain to Shiro _again_ why the gun was a good idea.

"No, but you're seriously bleeding," Keith said, interrupting the scolding. He reached up and pushed back the man's stained bangs, frowning. "That's deep. Come here."

Keith grabbed Shiro's wrist and dragged him into the lounge. Once inside, Keith grasped onto his broad shoulders, but instead of pushing Shiro down onto the tacky purple couch, he shoved the ruined jacket from his arms. The fabric manifested as a pile near Shiro's ankles, and only then did Keith make him sit. He drifted to the cabinet and yanked open one of the bottom drawers. At this point, he knew where every medical kit in the vicinity was hidden. He found the 'skin kit,' which was the bad nickname given to a laser designated for closing small abrasions, and he tossed the metal box onto the couch. It landed with a disinterested plop.

"It's not that bad," Shiro assured Keith.

Unconvinced, Keith sat beside him and popped open the box. "Tell that to the blood on your head. Anyway, we need to make it look as neat as possible. You have that party tonight."

Shiro's silence informed Keith he didn't remember.

He shifted onto his knees beside Shiro and gingerly disinfected the wound with a wipe. Keith eyed the split skin with a lopsided frown and clicked his tongue when Shiro hissed. Shiro clenched his teeth and looked ahead as if suddenly devoid of feeling, but Keith knew better.

"It's in the lobby," Keith continued, prodding at his brain. "The charity event for the Neumann's Prosthetic Research or… something…"

Shiro touched Keith's hip when he reached for the gun. It was tiny, no bigger than a neon Dollar General squirt gun, but the glass barrel was a tube of glowing quintessence that oxidized lavender and illuminated when activated. Keith pressed the thick needle to the side of Shiro's head, and the man gripped the soft skin along the thinnest part of Keith's waist.

"Two injections," Keith warned.

Keith tugged the trigger and listened for the air release and pitchy whirr. The glass tubbing spun twice and the blue light along the side informed him they were ready for another injection. Shiro's eyes watered, but he didn't move as his flesh wove itself back together.

"When do we need to be changed?"

"I think by nine at the latest. Dinner before."

Keith was finished, but Shiro's mechanical arm wrapped around his middle to keep him there. The other man wasn't bothered by the gesture, but he used Shiro's thigh as a desk while putting the equipment away. Keith leaned forward and snapped the latches shut, and Shiro brushed the boy's fallen tresses behind his ear. They didn't look at one another, but that was Keith's conscious fault. He told himself he believed in professionalism.

"What're you wearing?" Shiro asked.

"I'm not sure."

### ii.

Keith wore red.

It was Prada, and he remembered picking out the suit while half-drunk on merlot in Italy. Not on his credit card, but a business purchase, he honestly had no regrets.

"So what's the deal with you and Shiro?" Lance asked, standing beside Keith in a full body mirror while straightening his tie. They were in their shared hotel suite.

Keith hesitated on his answer and flicked his gaze toward the French doors reflected in the mirror. He wondered if he could sprint without Lance catching him.

Lance wasn't having it. "Don't deny anything and _don't_ run."

"I'm not," Keith said and raked his fingers through his hair. He reached for his pre-dinner drink and knocked the vodka back before continuing. "I just don't know what you're talking about."

"It wouldn't be the first time it's happened," Lance said and turned so Keith could fix his stubborn tie. Keith rolled his eyes and reached out, tugging his friend close by the front of his jacket. He recognized the Dior print and wondered what Lance had done to acquire it. "Team incest, I mean. I heard the guy before Shiro chronically fucked his team."

"That's nice," Keith coolly said and kept his eyes on Lance's chest, fingers growing faster when faced with confrontation. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

"No." Lance reached for Keith's wrist and stopped him to take his attention. "Stop shaking. You're second-in-command, and you're shaking over _Shiro_."

Keith dropped his hands and walked away to make himself another drink. He shoved ice into the shaker's metal cup and generously poured before slamming the lid on top. Keith shook over his shoulder and didn't look back at his colleague.

"I'm not shaking anything but this drink."

"Then make me one."

Lance knew when to change the subject. 

At least, sometimes.

### iii.

Charities didn't bother Keith, but there were multiple reasons for that. One of them being because of the praise he won from those who attended alongside him. Aside from the fulfillment of contributing to a cause that made a difference, there was something deeply satisfying in being gawked at by a crowd. Rarely did people approach him, but this was mostly because he kept to Shiro's side, drink in one hand and the other on his hip. If someone approached him, then Shiro reined in the conversation and kept the discussion politely social but mostly political.

"We've been here for two minutes," Shiro murmured beneath his breath.

Shiro had just redirected the gaze of a greying ambassador from Keith and spun his attention to the topic of prosthetic engineering and the charity's board requisites. The ambassador had realized he wasn't earning an inch, and after complimenting Keith's attire, left to find his wife.

Keith sipped from his stemmed glass before speaking. "That's my business."

"I think it's both our business when you use me to circumvent."

He hesitantly parted his lips with a smile, as if prepared to counter, but when nothing came to mind quick enough, Shiro's interrupting chuckle made Keith laugh.

Shiro's hand brushed along his lower back, and Keith leaned into the touch. Together, they eyed the crowd, paying special attention to Lance's flirt tactics. Pidge had once created an algorithm in order to help Lance's hopeless dating methods, but he hadn't utilized them beyond the first step, which was to talk to men and women.

"Are you going to tell me how you hit your head?" Keith asked and plucked another drink off a passing tray.

"Sendak was there," Shiro said, matter-of-fact but there was something ominous about the tone. "If I hadn't detonated that bomb when I did, then we wouldn't be standing here right now."

"We—" Keith started, sounding unconvinced by the word's usage. "Why _we_?"

"Because I'm a large portion of your impulse control. You would've gone in after me and died before finding my body."

"I wouldn't have died," Keith said, confident in this. "I was on my way in there and…"

Shiro grabbed onto Keith's hip and manufactured a smile for the sake of them both. "…almost walked into dying?"

They exchanged a look, and Keith's face softened at Shiro's words. He reached for the man's sleeve and clung to it, but he refrained from pushing the topic.

Knowing Keith was done, Shiro leaned down and kissed the top of his head. The gesture surprised Keith considering how important it was to keep romantic entanglement between agents hushed, but Keith also understood that Shiro didn't view him in a romantic light. Just like the Garrison, Keith was a disposable figure, barely a step above AI in terms of recyclability.

"We can split and reconvene somewhere upstairs," Shiro offered.

### vi.

Their hideout ended up being Shiro's 'humble' abode. It was the top floor penthouse suite, hidden from common hotel security and crafted to keep all prowlers out with steel doors and bulletproof windows with motion sensors. The only way to enter was via Shiro's arm or the selected voice recognition invented and maintained by Pidge. 'The Select' included Shiro's team and a single government official whose identity was safeguarded even from the likes of Keith.

Keith shucked off his suit in his room before meeting Shiro. He tugged on black slip-on shoes, a short robe over pajama pants and then headed down the carpeted hall toward the elevator.

Once inside and alone, Keith placed his palm against a seemingly inconspicuous sheet of stainless steel. The wall lit up a neon blue and the picture from his ID appeared beside his hand along with his rank, age and date of birth. He clearly enunciated his name before saying 'top floor,' and the elevator smoothly glided upward.

The penthouse was a modern stretch of white and black. White marble countertops, a black armless couch that overlooked a white faux-fur rug, a glass tabletop and elaborate entertainment center; Keith knew a majority of the apartment was a farce for the occasional guest or hookup.

Shiro wasn't back yet—probably ensnared by a conversation with a diplomat—so Keith made himself at home by grabbing a beer from the fridge and drifting to the man's bedroom.

The California king laid adjacent to a window that overwhelmed the entirety of its wall. Keith looked out onto the LA cityscape and lazily wrapped his lips around the beer's mouth. Deep down, he understood he'd wake up with the kind of hangover only Pidge's equipment could cure, but he didn't work the next day. It hardly mattered at twenty-four years old.

To be frank, Keith was too focused on his teeming thoughts to dwell on the consequences of beer sloshing into his guts.

Some seconds later, there was the quietest sound of dress shoes scuffing across black hardwood, and Keith reached to drag his fingers along the back of his neck as the steps whispered closer. He knew that leisurely gate, and like being jerked through a time warp, Keith remembered a time between them pre-Kerberos Mission. They were walking along Varadero Beach and waiting to meet the newest Garrison operative. Shiro had just been assigned the role Leader of Squad Voltron, and Keith was aware of the end of their blooming friendship.

_This doesn't change anything._

It had, but it hadn't.

_Whatever._

"Mr. Shirogane," Keith said.

He smiled at his own words.

The footfalls came to a halt.

Shiro plucked the beer from Keith's fingers and brought it to his lips. He took in the view and then handed the bottle back. Keith set it aside on the nightstand, pointedly using a coaster, and he heard the familiar rustle of Shiro removing his tie.

"Tired?" Shiro asked. "You were drinking like a fish a minute ago."

"Still standing," Keith managed and turned to take a seat in the nearest armchair. He lounged back, lanky legs apart, and he danced his fingers along the chair's armrest. His eyes darted toward Shiro as he removed his jacket, fiddled with cuffs.

"How're you feeling?"

"I didn't drink that much."

"I meant your head, but that, too."

Shiro removed his shirt, draping it over a bench along with his tie and jacket. He ambled toward Keith with noncommittal glances to the floor and then back to his teammate's face. Keith's eyes drifted along the terrain of Shiro's body; abdominal muscles so tone and untouched by fat that—when he rode the man through his mattress—he could feel the way they flexed beneath tight skin.

Keith had spent several nights worshiping Shiro's body. He'd licked along the narrow canyons of definition and suckled cold bruises onto the surface of lifting and falling muscles. With tears pricking his eyes, he'd even clawed his way down the marble walls of his chest while being drilled into. Shiro had spilled blood, rubbed the rust into his skin like an afterthought, and flipped Keith around to pull his sweat dampened hair.

_Friends._

_Just friends._

"It's healing fine," Shiro reassured him.

"Let me see."

Shiro knelt down in front of Keith, pointedly landing between his thighs with his hands settling on the boy's knees. Shiro leaned forward and arched his neck, but it was in order to give Keith a better view of his mostly healed injury. Attentive as always, Keith reached and stroked his fingertips along the ruddy scar. The quintessence was a miracle worker, but he knew it had to be sore.

"You need to sleep," Keith whispered when Shiro's hands pushed up Keith's thighs and found the silk pajama pants' waistband. Shiro and Keith shared a split-second look, and when Keith nodded, Shiro hooked his fingers under the slick fabric and pulled it downward. Keith lifted his hips, and his rose-colored robe swathed his thighs. It halted above his open knees and presented itself as a shadowed offering that made Shiro's mouth wet.

"Best friend," Keith said when Shiro shifted forward to kiss him, effectively stopping the man in his tracks.

Shiro's hands glided downward along Keith's muscular calves and stroked up, tracing the striking definition and then seeking Keith's thighs again.

The words had been posed as a question Keith didn't want the answer to, but Shiro wasn't afraid of delivering hard truths.

"Best friend," Shiro whispered. He kissed the naked portion of Keith's shoulder, and Keith lowered his lashes with a reserved exhale.

Accepting the words with only the faintest flinch, he shifted deeper into the chair and naturally lifted his knees. This motion made more room for Shiro, and Shiro eagerly filled the gap between them with a shift of broad shoulders. The movement pushed back Keith's thighs, and when his toes no longer touched the ground, Shiro rolled his lips along that same shoulder with a vibrating hum.

Keith's chest lifted in a sudden hitch, and Shiro tugged the robe down Keith's firm bicep. The air between them thickened like tempered cream.

Shiro's tongue peaked as he dragged his lower lip upward, smearing a patch of saliva. He shifted his head to Keith's pronounced collarbones, and there he sucked, lips freely feeling along the bone until he was certain a bruise would appear. Shiro dipped his tongue into the concave, and Keith's head lolled back in response, then weakly groaning from the bottom of his throat. Keith determinedly gnawed the inside of his lower lip, trying not to fall apart from something as simple as a series of kisses.

"More?"  
  
"Yeah."

Shiro brushed his digits along the underside of Keith's thighs, the skin smooth and near-hairless beneath the calloused pads of his fingertips. Had Shiro not suddenly stopped his traveling hands, then Keith would've turned himself around in the seat to give Shiro a full view of himself. He imagined biting the back of the chair, Shiro's bionic fingers tangled into his hair as he thrust in and out with the same powerful strength that'd once given his knees bloody carpet burn.

Whenever Shiro fucked him there was something about it that left him raw and breathless. The idea of 'mammal' became fully formed.

"Are you wearing your leg holster?" Shiro asked, embodying deadpan.

Keith blinked and lifted the side of his robe. He revealed a dagger clinging to flushed skin. It was secured with a strip of black leather and entirely too stylish for something never meant to be seen. Shiro grazed his thumb along the sheath and flicked his stare at Keith's face, eyebrow definitively arched.

"What?" Keith asked, lifting a hand. He tried not to laugh, but his alcohol consumption betrayed him. "You're the one who always tells me to be careful."

Shiro wrapped his arms around Keith's waist and brought him close with a suave glide. Feigning disinterest, Keith draped his arms over Shiro's shoulders but didn't interrupt when he easily kissed him on the mouth. Rather, he leaned in and firmly wrapped his thighs around his torso. Shiro's tongue traced his front teeth, prompting Keith to sweep his own along the muscle with a flick. Keith's hands slid along the scar between Shiro's shoulder blades, and the rigid tissue felt burnished beneath his touch.

"You saved me that day."

"Stop." Keith breathed the single word into the kiss, and Shiro opened the front of his robe to reveal black boy shorts that hung low on squared hipbones. "It was nothing—"

"Which makes me wonder why you're about to do what you're about to do."

_Shit._

The words plunged him face first into a bucket of ice, frozen shard shredding pores and numbing his core. Keith inhaled through front teeth, but before he could jerk his hand to grab the dagger, Shiro caught the leather strap and yanked downward, pulling it from Keith's reach. Keith flung out a hand, hurdling it toward Shiro's bangs, and he tightened his thighs' grip around the man's waist. Even though Shiro clasped onto his wrist, Keith was able to use his body weight to pitch them forward and upright.

Shiro caught his balance, but Keith dropped his arms from Shiro's neck and bent himself backward. His hands slammed onto the hardwood flooring, and he stared at the underneath of the very chair he'd just been seated in. Grunting, he used all of his leg strength to send Shiro rushing forward into the chair, praying his neck might break. Shiro's mass was awkward to toss, and the throw hardly cleared enough distance for Keith to flip himself to a standing position.

Shiro's recovery time was enough to incite doom. He pushed off the broken chair and steadied himself in front of Keith with a neck crack. Panting and eyes narrowed, Shiro rolled back his shoulders and straightened his arm to activate its tech. Keith, knowing what that magenta glow meant, skirted backward and shucked off his robe. He lifted both fists and attempted to remember everything Galra Co. had taught him.

"How long have you known?" Keith asked, smiling more for his nerves.

" _Weeks_ —you're bad at lying to me. You always have been."

Keith winced at that accusation.

"But you still…" Keith couldn't finish the thought. "Even though you _knew_."

"I slept pretty bad those nights," Shiro explained, confirming the man had knowingly slept with the enemy. "But no one knows how to drive quite like you."

Keith's expression darkened at that.

He charged toward Shiro with a thrown back fist, but Shiro was quick to catch his wrist and jerk it behind Keith's back. Keith flung an elbow, and as soon as he hit Shiro's jaw, darted toward the mattress as an escape route.

Shiro lunged with a bleeding mouth and captured Keith's ankle. He clambered onto the bed behind Keith and jerked him closer. Knowing his body well, Shiro smoothed a hand along Keith's spine and pointedly dug his finger into the Garrison chip buried at the base of his spine. The abrupt shock subdued Keith for a minute, and he groaned. That said, it didn't halt his flailing for long, and Keith attempted to knee Shiro in the face.

"What did they offer you?" Shiro yelled and suddenly pushed Keith's knees down. He landed between them and used his body weight to keep Keith pinned. His hands reached and snatched Keith's wrists.

"Your _job_."

"You _don't_ want this job enough for prison time! Keith, this is treason!"

"I don't do anything here," Keith hissed. "I don't do anything for the team. I suck your dick and don't even get a thank you for—"

Shiro caught Keith's jaw and squeezed. When his lips parted, he spat in Keith's mouth and pressed his head into the mattress.

"You know exactly why we're not like that! You know I'm responsible for this, and now, I'm going to have to report you! Now, we're going to be _nothing_ no matter what happens."

Keith violently shook his head beneath the hold, but he swallowed the spit. The submission gave Shiro a chill.

" _This_ is why you're not leading the team, Keith!"

Keith attempted to squirm free using his legs, but Shiro retracted and turned Keith belly down. He planted himself on top of Keith again, and Keith pressed his cheek to the dark comforter, trying to steady his semi-drunk person. It was a bad night for a fight.

"We could forget about this," Shiro tried, patience wavering.

"Shut up," Keith snapped and then silenced himself when Shiro draped his fingers along his Adam's apple.

"We could fuck here, and aside from giving me everything you know, never talk about this again." Shiro's robotic palm tightened around Keith's throat, and he rolled against Keith who moaned in response. Seeing an opening, Shiro pressed his fingers between Keith's mouth and prompted Keith to suck with a hard thrust. "It doesn't have to be like this, Keith. Don't make me kill you."

"Do it," Keith insisted through drool.

He rocked back against Shiro, and Shiro shifted his thighs behind Keith's. They pressed together, and the sheen along Keith's shoulder was why the man leaned in and kissed the skin. Keith's breathing climbed, and he whimpered when Shiro ground against him, suddenly creating a rhythm that articulated every ounce of want he had for Keith.

"Yield," Shiro breathed into Keith's ear. "I'll protect you from Zarkon. We'll tell them you were a double agent working for us. Just yield, Keith."

Keith spat out Shiro's fingers and inhaled for air, throat dried and aching. "I'll never yield for you."

Shiro opened his mouth to yell at Keith, to try one final mournful offering dish, but there was a sudden knocking on the bedroom door. They both stopped moving, and their eyes darted toward the knocks, breathing out of time. Keith and Shiro exchanged a look and rolled away from one another, reaching opposite ends of the bed.

Keith tugged a gun out from beneath Shiro's bed, and Shiro plucked the one out of his nightstand. Holding each other hostage, the knocking continued.

"Shiro?"

Pidge.

They both mouthed 'fuck,' and Keith darted toward the nearby dresser. He kept his gun pointed at Shiro and dug out his Nike joggers and a black muscle tee.

"One second, Pidge! I forgot you were dropping by. For that book, right?"

Their next words were muffled by the door but clearly cautious. "Yeah. Is this a bad tim—"

"Maybe," Keith breathed and Shiro pumped his trigger.

"No. It's fine. I just got out of the shower. Let me get dressed and—"

Keith stopped him mid-sentence by flinging sweats at him, too. He opened a nearby water bottle with his teeth and pointedly tossed it on Shiro's face. Shiro sputtered and hacked through a cough, but Keith could only snort as he got dressed, still holding the handgun. Shiro squinted at Keith and changed before sweeping back his soaked bangs.

"The book," Keith whispered. "Where's the book?"

"Your side of the bed," Shiro answered, and Keith darted toward it. He threw it at Shiro, and Shiro sighed when it made him fumble with the loaded gun. He pointed the gun at Keith, and Keith swiftly mimicked the move. "Don't try anything."

Keith gestured at his own gun. "You're the one turning your back to me."

"Under the bed. _Now_."

Keith listened and rolled beneath the mattress. Still pointing the gun at Shiro's ankles, he knew that Shiro wouldn't think twice about snitching right then. He had too much faith in Keith being convinced otherwise, and honestly, Keith was trembling from the thought of lodging a bullet inside Shiro's body. He'd once lived his life to protect the man.

With the book in hand, Pidge eventually left Shiro's suite. Shiro claiming to have had too much to drink had pacified Pidge for the time being, but they were clearly suspicious of Shiro's disheveled appearance and thick breathing.

"Out," Shiro snapped, and Keith reappeared on the opposite side of the bed with the gun in both hands. "Turn yourself in, baby. If I vouch for you, then you'll be fine."

"Baby," Keith repeated, word cold. "Don't _baby_ me."

" _Keith_ ," Shiro corrected, saying the name as if it weren't common, but something worth its weight in gold.

"Let me walk out of here and no one gets hurt," Keith said. He pretended his words weren't shaking from internal rage. From the cold truths Zarkon had spoon fed him some weeks ago. "If you don't let me walk, then I'll take everyone down with me along the way."

Keith drifted toward the French doors that led out onto the balcony. If he could escape through the balcony, then he could use the side door to grab his bike from the garage. Until Shiro alerted someone, then no one would know. He'd get out unharmed.

" _Please_ —don't actually do this."

"Oh, he's begging," Keith murmured, satisfied. "You know, maybe you should actually talk to Zarkon, Takashi. After all, that's where your arm came from."

Shiro stopped his thoughts, gun somewhat lowering. "What?"

Keith walked back toward the balcony doors, but he never dropped his gun. "It's a great story, I promise. But I won't give it as much justice. You should speak to him yourself."

They slowly stepped onto the overlook together. So many nights had been spent drinking together, knocking back shots in solitude while discussing how lucky they were to not only have their jobs but have their jobs together.

"Keith, _no_!"

Keith stepped onto the flimsy railing. He inhaled hard and lowered his gun with a smile that was reminiscent of a smile Shiro had repeatedly kissed.

"Later, _baby_."

He dropped off the railing, gun held in a single hand and body straight. Shiro darted toward the railing and leaned over the twenty-story drop, but like a gust of smoke, Keith was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

### i.

It was in poor form, but Shiro didn't immediately call Captain Allura about Keith's mutiny.

Rather, he sat on his bed, legs crossed and chest delicately heaving through panic he was attempting to rationalize. Shiro's bionic arm twitched through his self-awareness, and his eyes dragged along the lines of his flesh hand's palm. Not only was Keith's abandonment harrowing for interpersonal reasons, but also, he'd artfully planted seeds meant to unnerve Shiro. To be frank, he couldn't recall the last time he'd been sick within his own skin.

" _You know, maybe you should actually talk to Zarkon, Takashi._

_After all, that's where your arm came from."_

After the trauma and surgeries to adhere his prosthetic, Keith had adored Shiro's mountains of self-hatred into Great Plains. Plains that sharply cascaded forward and didn't ask its viewer to look over his shoulder and question the passing erosion. Ahead of him grew too many wildflowers, too many lingering sunsets capable of bleeding into every nook and cranny of darkness.

_Shit.“I love you!”_

He didn't have time to regret how he'd treated Keith.

Shiro's eyes darted toward the wall clock. The red numbers stared back at him in unrelenting stillness. Rushing blood echoed inside his ear canals.

_4:13 AM_

He wasn't sure how long he let the semi-darkness pool around him, but eventually, his phone buzzed from the nightstand. Abrupt gurgling rushed past his ears, and like being tugged from the depths of a subarctic river, Shiro resurfaced.

He leaned to the side and despondently reached for the phone. He expected Lance's stoned drawl or maybe Pidge's digging concern. Outside of Keith, his favorite was when Hunk called with the offering of Bustelo and time for talking, researching.

Shiro could only hope to be half as good as his teammates, but he knew he had a long way to go before he found his footing amongst them.

"What—"

He caught one glimpse of his phone's screen and drew in a breath.

Keith's name stared back at him, and the accompanying knife and red exclamation point emojis were that much more threatening. Shiro's fingers hovered over the video call, but after a moment's contemplation, he mashed his thumb into the answer button.

The camera caught Keith's chest and panned out to a warmly lit space. Shiro vaguely recognized the area with its custom cabinets displaying rows of stilled clothing; vantablack suits, tiers of glimmering dress shoes peppered amongst black and white Nikes. The dark oak swaddled Keith's muscular frame, which was currently lowering into a crouched position. Between Keith's departure and then, he'd adorned a red motorcycle jacket and a pair of Versace combat boots.

When the camera focused, it was on Keith cleaning his nails with his favorite dagger. His tongue was hooked between his front teeth and one of his dark brows stood at attention.

"Miss me already?" Shiro asked. The words were just above a hiss, digging out from the spaces between his teeth.

"No," Keith said, matter-of-fact. He continued to pick, not looking toward the camera. "Have I ever told you about how much I love your safe houses? This one, especially. Your _clothes_ , Shiro."

Keith pushed a piece of hair behind his ear and started to preen the other hand. He waited for the implication to bleed into Shiro's understanding. Eventually, it did, and Shiro jerked forward when it occurred to him where Keith was. He pushed himself off the bed and on toward the closet across from his bed.

Keith's lips split into a grin as Shiro rustled for his shoes.

"Keith, don't do anything ignorant!"

"Define _ignorant_ ," Keith said and flicked his gaze toward Shiro's panicked movements. "I don't think anything I'm about to do could be defined as ignorant."

He yanked a beanie onto his head and swiftly fixed his hoary bangs.

Shiro snatched his keys off the hook and shook them at the camera. "I'm coming for you, kiddo."

Keith shrugged.

The smug little gesture drove a nail through Shiro's temple. He shoved his feet into a pair of Nikes and promptly darted out of the bedroom. As soon as he turned the corner, he slammed his hip against a couch and sharply muttered a halting ' _son of a_ —' only to stop himself. Shiro inhaled and swiveled toward the elevator door that was already opening thanks to voice command. Once inside, he mercilessly pounded his finger against the basement button, ignoring the twinkling piano music overhead.

"If you touch anything in there… I swear to God, Kogane."

"What're you going to do?" Keith asked, by then lounged out on the white chaise positioned in the middle of Shiro's closet. The space was worth more than a bachelor's degree from Harvard.

Shiro hesitated on that note. "I don't know, but it'll probably _hurt_."

Keith laughed; the sound ripe like citrus. It was bright enough that—had it been a fruit—biting down would've caused juice to trail down Shiro's jugular. Keith lazily dragged a hand down the side of his face and continued to smile at his newfound enemy. At that, Shiro's chest tightened for reasons other than annoyance. The pair held eye contact, and the flutter in Shiro's heart dropped to the pit of his stomach.

Keith shifted so that he could lounge upside down. "Is that a promise?"

The elevator chimed and Shiro strode forward. In the distance, his black and white Bugatti's engine turned over as if summoned. Shiro darted for the car's slowly opening door.

He hated that he wanted to play along with Keith.

"Since when don't I keep the promises I make you?"

Shiro plopped down and smiled at the phone before slamming the door shut. He thoughtlessly pressed his hand to the palm reader, and the proverbial Batmobile came to life. Slow and concise, Shiro said his full name followed by the extra password, which was Keith's codename. The car's main access frame unfurled in front of him, and Shiro eyed the purple holographic deck displaying all of his teammate's vitals, positions and current mission rosters. He was quick to note how Keith's pulse was racing.

"There was that one time you promised me I'd like mint ice cream."

"Correction, Keith. I promised you it was _good_. It's still good. I can't help you have terrible taste."

"So _that_ explains why I always spent so long on my knees sucking your—"

Shiro's lips collapsed into a thin line. "I'm hanging up now, but do yourself a favor and be gone before I get there. You're too pretty to kill."

The word 'kill' sent Keith's heart racing.

Shiro squeezed the steering wheel as another adrenaline rush turned his ribs hot.

He knew that heart rate well, had trained himself to understand the leverage it carried. There were nights when things seemed too quiet and Shiro found himself making sure his teammates were safe on their individual missions. Too late for coffee, but still holding a mug of Hunk's leftover offerings, he'd sit with a similar holographic display in front of him—reading through old files and keeping watch for the sake of cracking his insomnia like an egg.

The fluctuating data would reflect off his reading glasses for hours before there was a change, but on occasion, Keith's pulse would begin climbing the screen—building and building before reaching a frantic hammering that tightened Shiro's abs and caused his neck to burn. It usually took eight minutes before it bottomed out and morphed into a rhythmic flutter. Only then did Shiro roll out of bed and make his way to Lance and Keith's shared suite.

Keith always answered the door; hair freshly tousled and warm, wearing that same rose robe that persistently dripped off his shoulders.

" _Busy?"_

" _This is kind of creepy, Shirogane."_

" _I can leave."_

" _Not on your life."_

Keith would tug him into the suite and sneak him past Lance's door with Shiro's playful kisses climbing the back of his neck. Once in his room, he'd promptly let Shiro tear him apart. Voluntarily, he'd place Shiro's bionic hand over his mouth and beg, plead for him to ' _fuck me harder_.' It was a mutual understanding that Keith could handle more than Shiro was willing to give, but even so, when Shiro finished inside him (condom unopened and forgotten between the sheets), Keith was quick to drape himself across Shiro's chest and sleep. Morning would follow, and it tended to be accompanied with desperate make outs, a Bloody Mary for breakfast, and then avoiding eye contact through their meetings in the lab.

Rinse. Repeat.

" _You're the only person who's ever made me feel this good."_

" _Jesus, Keith."_

" _Harder—please, fuck it out of me."_

Again, Shiro refused to feel an ounce of regret.

### ii.

He got stuck in traffic.

Overall, Shiro had to admit he was a lucky man, but there was something karmic about there being traffic on the interstate at 4 AM. There were only two reasons for that traffic; an accident or God. Shiro would've put his entire 'young money' fortune on it being the Hand of God, but at the rate he was going, God would've probably denied all claims and cleaned Shiro out for the hell of it.

Leaned forward like a Floridian grandmother in a Cadillac, he started to sweat.

Shiro loved three things; his job, his clothes and Ke—

Shiro currently loved _two_ things; his job and his clothes.

Keith was taking a nominal piss on both.

The traffic inched forward, and he was contemplating calling in a helicopter when his phone rang. Firmly believing Keith was too busy desecrating his safe house, he reached and hit the answer button. To his right, a video feed popped up, and it was the cameras to his safe house accompanied by Keith's heavy breathing. One by one, Keith slung what looked to be a weighty bottle of cognac against the lenses, causing camera after camera to descend into static.

Only when Keith was done did he bring the phone's mouthpiece to his lips. "What's taking you so long?"

"Are you _waiting_?"

"Not anymore. No."

The fuzzy feed switched to Keith's phone camera, and again, he set the device down so that Shiro could see him. This time, Shiro had a panoramic view of the meticulously organized closet. Not only was his closet sorted by brand, but by year and color. All he had to do was make a handful of specifications and the garment was bound to be there for the picking. It was his most prized collection, and the only person aside from him with access to his safe house was Keith. Not even Allura could enter the underground apartment without rewiring Shiro's impenetrable system.

He regretted that decision.

Shiro tensed when Keith ran his fingers along the neatly lined clothing, filleting them open and inspecting their integrity one at a time. Finally, Keith plucked his first choice off the rack and extended his arm to admire his choice. Shiro's pupils dilated, blowing open at the threat.

"Keith, think about what you're doing."

Keith wiped his knife clean against his pant leg before lifting it to Shiro's brand new Givenchy letterman.

"Keith!"

The sound of shredding fabric was like a car crash. Shiro's gaze ripped from the screen, and he was glad he was in traffic because his eyes squeezed shut. Molars flaring as he ground his teeth, Shiro had never felt half as violent. Keith had shoved him into a volatile place, a vulnerable place.

"That was one of a kind!" Shiro yelled at the screen and slammed his hand against the dash again and again. "Do you know what one of a kind _means_?"

"Oh yeah," Keith said, self-satisfied as he tugged another garment off the bar.

Shiro held his hand to the horn and screamed.

### iii.

But he was too late.

The underground safe house was located on the outlands of LA. It looked inconspicuous, like any other suburban apartment complex, but that was the point. Shiro entered through the communal front door, steered himself into the dimly lit elevator, and planted his hand against the wall's invisible reader. Instead of going up to what looked to be the only two available floors, it fell downward.

When the doors opened on the living room, Shiro didn't bother leaving the elevator. He pressed his forehead to the steel wall and practiced his Lamaze breathing instead.

Strewn across the entirety of his apartment was his collection. Years of hoarding and specially ordering pieces laid slaughtered before his eyes, and it took Shiro a long moment before he could brace himself enough to walk inside. There was no dignity in the act. A pair of leather Gucci pants Shiro had worn once, but swore he'd wear again, hung from the ceiling fan. He reached up, tugged it down and wasn't surprised to see the crotch torn and repeatedly stabbed.

His phone rang again, and he answered it with such immediacy his arm popped.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Shiro asked.

"I'm upstairs."

Keith hung up, and Shiro spun on his heel.

He returned to the elevator, and like at the hotel, furiously jabbed the button. Once on the main floor, he sprinted out the front door only to come to a smoking stop. Keith was perched on his bike, that motor shaking softly between his thighs, and he was casually leaned forward. Shiro could see the arch along his lower back, even beneath the red leather, and Keith pointedly shifted his weight forward.

Shiro stepped toward him.

Keith revved his engine in warning.

It was like approaching a feral cat.

"Maybe we could discuss this over coffee," Shiro tried. He lifted his hands as if easing the beast. "You don't have to do this. I get the point. You think I'm an asshole."

Keith paused, momentarily thinking.

"Coffee, right. Let's do it at your place. Your other place."

The willingness left Shiro suspicious. "Which place?"

"There's only one other place, Shiro."

"Not if you count the place on Lance's island."

Keith closed his eyes. He was tired. "The nearest place."

He pushed back his bangs and reached for his helmet, but not before giving Shiro a small wink. Shiro looked away, feeling his face flood with heat. He hated that he found Keith so damn attractive.

"See you there."

The Menace tore out of the driveway, spitting gravel and winding toward the highway. Shiro let his shoulders drop and strode toward his car.

The other place was a secondary safe house, but more or less, it was Shiro's literal house. Tucked away in the hills and shadowed by an unsuspecting gated community, sometimes Shiro threw themed parties there. Mostly, it collected dust or his dusty parents when they came to the states for their annual never ending visit. During its vacancy hours, the government pointedly hired people to make the place appear lived in, but Shiro couldn't remember the last time he'd spent the night in the sprawling white ranch.

Honestly, the only thing he kept there was his prized liquor cabinet.

His car door opened with the slightest touch of a button, but for a reason he initially couldn't place, something about the car seemed _off_. Shiro stared at the interior, but he didn't enter it. Cautiously, he stepped back and examined the vehicle. There was no way for Keith to enter his car, so that wasn't his main concern. Keith also hadn't had enough time to tamper with it and insert a bomb. Truthfully, it was the car's position that bothered him. Somehow, it seemed shorter, closer to the ground.

Shiro flicked his stare lower only to rapidly fill his lungs.

All four tires were slashed.

His phone buzzed, but it wasn't a call. Shiro jerked it out of his pocket and glared down at the text message framing the top of his screen. It was from Keith.

_A heart emoji._

Two seconds later.

_A knife emoji._

Shiro pursed his lips and gazed at his car with a mournful grunt. He sobered his rage and shoved the phone back into his pocket. Shiro turned and ran for the emergency car in the safe house's garage. It wasn't a Bugatti, but he figured a three-year-old Mercedes would do.

### iv.

"So—here's how we're going to do this," Shiro started, cool and collected into Keith's voicemail. "We're going to meet at my house, and we're going to talk. We're going to talk _hard_."

Shiro was sitting in traffic.

"This isn't entirely my fault either. You could've said something, Keith. We could've had a _soft_ talk about this with a drink and found resolve that doesn't end in someone identifying one of us in a morgue. You know you were more than my— _Get in your lane! That is not your lane! Move into your lane! Who teaches people how to drive in LA? Redwoods? Because it's like no one knows how to move!—_ you were more than someone I slept with, Keith. _"_

He beeped his horn to the tune of his three-year-old Kanye West album.

"You're my best friend. It's the only reason you can get into these safe houses and wreck everything I own. Why would I give you primacy over Allura if you weren't everything to— _I swear to…"_

Shiro cleared his throat and sank down into his seat when traffic became standstill.

"Keith, please. They're already going to know you did this. We can chalk it up to interpersonal issues and call it a day. They'll put us on probation, and we might not be able to talk for a while, but it'll be fine."

A soft silence dispersed throughout the car, and Shiro furrowed his brow.

"Just think about it."

He hung up and tilted his head against the headrest. The sun was creeping toward the sky and spreading light across the tops of cars, the heat already causing the pavement to warble. He genuinely needed coffee at that point. Possibly spiked coffee and a huge bagel to comfort his self-loathing.

Some minutes later, another holographic monitor blipped beside him, and he realized it was Keith's vitals _and_ emotional state. After much discussion revolving around privacy, the government had decided 'emotional state' breeched several levels of individual confidentiality. While not entirely removed from the server, access was no longer given to anyone outside of Allura, and her advisor, Coran. Seeing as Shiro's car hadn't been updated in years, this feature hadn't been removed.

The computer flicked words like 'undeterminable amounts of stress' and 'panic attack' across the screen, and Shiro sank lower. When the words 'strained lacrimal gland' blared back at him, Shiro grabbed his phone to call Keith again, but he stopped himself.

Maybe he did regret how he'd treated Keith.

Maybe.

 

### v.

Shiro pulled up to an empty garage and dark ranch.

Keith's bike was nowhere to be found, but when he unlocked the front door and let himself inside, the scent of his favorite Woodsman roast greeted him like a wall. He smacked his hand against the light switch, and with his bionic arm thrumming within its purple glow, crept across the living room. Keith could've shot him right then, and it would've been over, but Shiro had a creeping feeling Keith was more in for the torture aspect than Lance's assassination mentality. This was hardly about Zarkon.

"Keith," Shiro said, ready to goad at all costs.

With a back to whatever wall he could find, Shiro gave the front of the house a once over before he decided he was alone.

His brain was melting within his skull when he entered the kitchen to see the coffee pot alive and well. The act of reaching for a mug reminded him of their days at MIT. Back then, Keith and he shared a dorm, a hidden coffee pot, and sometimes, even a bed. He'd had two arms then, and Keith's hair had been short. Shiro even remembered the vintage bomber jacket Keith took hostage after their first night out together. It was too big on him, but he wore it and its NASA patch with reverence.

Shiro poured the coffee and brought it to his lips, eyes locked onto the countertop.

Why was he suddenly feeling inescapably lonely?

He drifted from the kitchen toward the other end of the house where he preferred to entertain. It was a sprawling den that led onto a patio and infinity pool. Elevated, it overlooked LA's vast reach and exuded 'ideal.' The gas fire pit and trellises made it a haven for midnight conversations, and when the furniture's cushions were pulled from storage, there was something about it that bled escapism.

Shiro didn't have time to appreciate his property, though. The pungent scent of bourbon shot up his nose like caramel smelling salts, overwhelming the coffee in hand. He could practically feel the alcohol in the air, dragging its claws up his throat and turning his stomach upside down. Shiro sniffed back once and turned the corner into the aforementioned den.

He stopped mid-step.

There was carnage.

Bottles upon bottles were scattered before him, and the thick shards laid mangled in their own fluids, not even gasping for air. The fragments tauntingly gleamed beneath the morning's lavender light, spanning from the white marble bar top and across dark hardwoods. Shiro could only sigh as the slow drips from the bar's edge caught his attention, and for a quiet moment, he saw red.

Hundreds of bottles plucked from across the globe—some even considered priceless—had been desecrated. Like his tattered clothing, he was looking at a small fortune worth of waste.

In the middle of the bar stood a bottle of Michter's. It taunted Shiro with its pristine condition, as if entirely unscathed by battle. He immediately recognized the bottle because the 4,000 USD whiskey had been a gift from Keith the year before. They'd opened it by the pool and drank half of it straight, barely appreciating it like the lowbrow heathens they were at heart. Shiro pointedly recalled that night, the way Keith kissed him with an open mouth and told him he was _so_ happy he'd been born.

_"You make me so happy."_

_"You make me happy, too."_

Glass crunched beneath his tennis shoes as he approached the desolate bottle. It was fuller than he remembered.

Shiro placed his mug down in a puddle of what smelled like brandy, and as he uncapped the bottle, he considered the possibility that he was about to ignite an explosive. He tugged the bottle closer to his nose, leaned to catch a whiff and swiftly made a face. Expressing a long, exasperated sigh, Shiro leaned away.

_That sure is piss._

"War it is."

### vi.

Keith had a safe house.

More like, a car house.

The industrial-styled condominium was located in the heart of LA's downtown, all steel piping and cinderblocks. Surrounded by peeled eyes and the occasional skyscraper, Shiro had given Keith the advice to keep his safe house in a central location simply because it was too obvious. Together, they'd sketched out the elaborate floorplan, spending hours making sure the underground garage could safely hold his collection of luxury cars.

Lamborghini, Porsche, Ferrari, McLaren; Keith's car collection ran into the millions, even if technically, some were gifts or on loan.

" _What do you even do with these cars? Stare at them?"_

"… _yeah."_

Whenever they were bored enough and had the time, Keith and Shiro would take one of the cars up north and spend the afternoon talking about everything that did and didn't matter. There were beaches to explore, bottled beer to pound down on top of towels and exchanged dreams, aspirations. Some were shared, some weren't, but they were always discussed together and with mutual support.

Shiro breathed in deep at the thought.

Anyway, it really was a formidable collection, almost invaluable.

Most importantly, Shiro had the override key to the entire system.

He calmly drove to Keith's condo, to-go cup in hand and a series of Little Debbie cakes littered across his lap. Eventually, he was going to have to call in and let the team know he was on a goose chase, but he needed to eat his feelings before he dealt with that drama.

Zebra Cake hanging from his mouth, he swerved through traffic and into an underground garage. At the booth, he pressed his robotic palm against an inconspicuous keypad and waited as it scanned, chewing with the veracity of a corpse. The screen lit green, and the pavement before him lowered to give access to a secondary garage no one would've even thought to suspect.

He drove down, wondering if Keith had returned to Zarkon's lair.

Shiro didn't care either way. He parked the Mercedes and quietly finished his snack cakes, thinking about how he was going to tell Pidge and company about Keith being a Big Betrayer. When he finished stuffing his face, he grabbed the gun from the seat beside him and stepped out. There he fixed the silencer with a cocked head, mouth shifted to the side in a concentrated frown and head cooler due to his confectionary therapy. Surrounding him was a throng of red cars, all pristine and glimmering within their wax jobs.

Once, Shiro had asked Keith why he loved red so much.

" _It just gets me."_

Red; angry, passionate, the color of poppies, fiery, blah blah, etc.

Red; will cut up your clothes, destroy everything you love, gives good head, cries when he comes, etc.

Shiro made sure his gun was properly loaded. He then righted his shoulders and approached the first Porsche. It was an estimated 450,000 USD, including the advanced technological updates. After a shrug, Shiro aimed and popped the first tire with a clean shot. Deciding that felt really, _really_ good, he did it to the second, third, and fourth. Air released and so did the tension building around his shoulders. As much as he wanted to take a soak in his guilt, he couldn't make himself after the clothes and booze.

There were ten cars, and within ten minutes, he'd flattened every tire in the room.

Shiro considered shooting in a door or two, but he decided that was going too far. He had to be the bigger man of the two. After all, he was the leader.

With the final bullet lodged in rubber, Shiro locked his car and strode toward the elevator that led to Keith's actual home.

Unlike Shiro, Keith spent time in his safe house. This was all the more apparent when he stepped inside and the first thing he noticed was a recently forgotten pizza box on the coffee table. Keith's style wasn't exactly minimalist like Shiro's, what with his bright red lounges and elaborate entertainment center (curated by Lance). Keith had every prototype known to video game hell, and surrounding said living space were frames upon frames of vintage anime prints. It was an homage to 1987-1996, and when Shiro had once questioned his robot figurine collection, Keith had promptly asked him to 'shut up.'

He opened Keith's red retro fridge in search of a water bottle. Contemplating one of Keith's pudding cups, he decided against it and pushed an expired jug of milk aside. There he found a bottle of VOSS. Shiro stood, door propped against his hip, and uncapped the expensive mineral water.

Mid-sip, his phone gave an ominous ring.

At first, Shiro thought to ignore it. He'd had enough Keith for one morning, and from the looks of it, he was going to have to report to Allura within the hour. The call went to voicemail, but it started buzzing again, persistent. Shiro reached and inspected the screen. It was Keith, of course, and he blandly gazed at the name before finally answering. He took another swig from his bottle before shifting his weight and eyeing Keith's victimized box of Chinese food.

Keith softly inhaled, breathing in as if relieved.

"Behind you."

Shiro dropped the water bottle and instantly ducked. Glass shattered at his feet, forcing him to close his eyes. He brought his hands over his head in time to evade ear-splitting gunfire. The expired milk exploded, and Shiro slid back before he was doused in the putrid liquid. Panting, it splattered onto his shoes, but Shiro was too busy imagining his chest cavity in its place to care.

The bullet had been delayed, which told Shiro the shot was meant to unnerve him, not kill him.

He swiftly unharnessed his gun and turned while crouched down. At Keith's impatient hum, Shiro stood tall and faced his assailant. He pointed with both hands, ready to fire at Keith's throat.

"Relax."

"You shot at me!"

Keith was leaned over the breakfast bar with his pistol, spinning it on a single finger. His casual expression made it seem as if he'd attempted to take Shiro down with a squirt gun.

 _All in good fun_ , his face said.

"You slashed my tires," Keith said, voice accusatory.

"You are _really_ one to talk right now."

Keith delicately switched on the safety and set his gun down. "Speaking of talking, I think I want to now."

He carefully pushed the weapon toward Shiro. It was a token of submission. 

Shiro didn't dare lower his gun. "I have no reason to trust you right now. You know that."

"Fair," Keith said with a sigh, and Shiro realized Keith was wearing his bomber jacket. The one he'd worn and promptly stolen after their first 'friend date.' Shiro refused to call it an actual date, but his heart sank at the sight of the NASA patch. "One second—let me just…"

Keith opened the jacket. Inside were two more guns, a holster meant for a fleet of knives, what looked to be a grenade and then a pair of brass knuckles. He dropped them onto the table, and somehow, a chain appeared from behind his back, clearly also having been strapped to the inside of the jacket. Keith leaned over, reached beneath his pant leg and produced another gun along with two knives from his boots.

Shiro arched an eyebrow and coughed, nodding toward Keith's legs.

"Really?" Keith asked.

"I've been between them enough to know."

Keith rolled his jaw and shamelessly shoved down his joggers. Shiro twisted his lips to the side and tried not to grin, but Keith beat him to it with a sly smile. His small hands swiftly worked to undo another set of holsters wrapped around both of his toned thighs. They unsnapped with soft clinks, and when he was sure they were off, Keith lifted them both high. They dropped onto the pile with a dead _thunk_.

Keith tugged up his joggers, but they were so low slung Shiro could only suck the inside of his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I could squat and cough if that'll make you feel better."

"You're fine. I've never found anything in there before."

Keith gave an unreadable shrug and walked toward the other side of the bar. Only then did Shiro lower his gun and cautiously set it alongside Keith's weapons. He grabbed the edge of the counter and dully stared at Keith who was peering into Shiro's eyes without reproach.

"Feel better?" Shiro asked.

"No," Keith said and settled his elbow on the counter in front of Shiro. "I'm still going to work for Zarkon."

Shiro didn't try to fight this, not even when the rage bubbled up his throat. He choked it down and lifted his eyebrows with a disappointed exhale.

"He's using you to get to me," Shiro said and he stepped forward.

This time, Keith didn't move to threaten him away.

"Probably, but…" Keith hesitated on that thought. Shiro knew that look, and he wished he didn't. It held the softest touch of melancholy, entirely unmasked and earnest. Keith only offered that face to him when experiencing feelings too undeniable even for his training. "It doesn't matter at this point, does it? I've sold everyone out, including you. This can't be framed as a crime of passion."

The younger man's eyes were dimly red-rimmed, and Shiro thought back to ' _strained lacrimal gland_.'

Keith's fingertips twitched, and Shiro understood what he was about to do. The wound in that was enough to make Shiro's chest softly seize.

The drawer between them jerked open with a distinct clatter, and Shiro closed his eyes. Always faster than Shiro could ever hope to be, Keith's lithe hand swept down and jerked out a butcher knife. Before Shiro could blink—before he could even gasp—the blade drove through the fabric of his shirt, beneath the fleshy tissue hidden behind his ribs. All at once, steel was snugly lodged inside his central core and blood plumed across the front of his black shirt, seemingly censored.

Blood bubbled up Shiro's esophagus and shot from between his lips. It sprayed against Keith's face, but Keith didn't flinch, didn't blink.

"Baby," Shiro said, but the words barely hissed free. Blood drained between the crevices of his teeth and stained them pink. "Oh, God, baby."

He realized he'd trusted Keith down to the final second.

He'd believed in him enough to think he wouldn't.

Keith's eyes watered as he jerked upward and twisted the knife, the sound of tearing flesh mingling with Shiro's rasping. It wasn't long before the tears spilled over, running down both Keith's cheeks. Other than that, his expression was entirely hardened, void of distress and pain.

' _undeterminable amounts of stress'_

' _panic attack'_

"Baby," Keith whispered back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for being patient.

### i.

Shiro was stabbed; gutted, filleted, knifed, etc.

On a level of gray understanding, Shiro had the mind to wonder if he'd deserved it. He decided it was taboo to consider this a possibility, but then again, he hadn't been the most compassionate man to grace Keith's presence. It'd been unintentional, of course. Shiro hadn't sought to hurt Keith's feelings. That was villainous and he was The Good Guy, but the fact that it'd been unintentional definitely didn't vilify him the way he wanted it to.

Anyway, Shiro survived.

His teammates were thankful, relieved when the surgeon returned with the news the knife had miraculously avoided his vitals. That is until they found themselves in the gridlock that was Shiro coming to terms with the fact Keith had actually driven a blade beneath his ribs. It was then the team wondered if they should've left him bleeding out on the floor or at least kept him in a medically induced coma.

"Shiro hasn't left his room in _days_. Maybe we should make sure he's not dead or something," Hunk murmured over his coffee mug, eyes darting toward said room's door.

"He's being a baby," Pidge said. She sucked air through her straw, the ice gurgling in reply. "I heard him flush the toilet two hours ago. He's fine, okay?"

Lance was seated with his legs kicked up on Shiro's marble table, blue Versace booties crossed at the ankles. In hand was an unloaded sniper rifle and he was polishing its custom barrel with a dirty cloth. He pointed it at the window, aimed as if targeting a phantom Keith, and pulled the trigger with a whispered ' _pow_.'

"Stop it," Hunk ordered.

Lance lowered his gun with a smug smile.

"Pow," he challenged.

Hunk gestured as if about to throw his coffee on Lance, and when Lance flinched, he jerked it back for another sip.

"There's really not much we _can_ do," Pidge said, confirming their fears.

"Pow."

Hunk slowly scooted back his chair, and Lance dropped the gun onto his lap. He lifted both palms in surrender and reached for his hot chocolate.

"Did Shiro ever explain why Keith left?" Lance asked, returning to his careful cleaning after an obnoxiously long slurp.

"He has a meeting with Allura today. We'll get more details after," Pidge said. They tilted their head back, momentarily watching the ceiling fan's hypnotic spin. "But I already know why. It's pretty obvious."

Lance and Hunk exchanged a weighted look and turned to Pidge, expectant. A pause lingered between the three before Pidge cleared their throat and let their shoulders drop.

"Shiro and Keith were _together_. I mean, it didn't seem like it went beyond the apartment, but there's a reason they worked so well together. I saw it back at MIT. The big-eyed stares, Shiro following Keith like a puppy, and then the way he always stole Keith's fries. It was _gross_. Remember the jacket? Keith _loved_ that jacket."

"The jacket," Hunk whispered sagely.

"But we knew that," Lance said. "Keith talked to me about it. I mean, he didn't talk about it, but he did that thing where he acknowledged it by refusing to acknowledge it."

"That makes total sense," Hunk murmured.

Lance caught the sarcasm and reached for a forgotten Sno Ball. He chucked it at Hunk.

Hunk caught it and opened the factory-produced confectionary with a pointed tug, as if reminding Lance he could do the same to his ribs. As soon as he took a bite, he frowned and gave the cream filling a disenchanted stare. He dropped it onto the table. "Man, they're _never_ as good as they look. How has Shiro been binging these?"

"Because he can't cook and probably thinks they taste good," Lance answered. "That or self-loathing."

"Definitely self-loathing."

Pidge pursed their lips and leaned forward, hovering over their cup with a lopsided frown. They reached for an emptied box of Zebra Cakes and quietly set it upright. Lance stacked a napkin on top and Hunk pretended to cough so that it'd fall.

"I miss Keith," Pidge admitted. They propped their cheek on a palm, giving it a dramatic squish. "I miss him too much to be mad."

Pidge wasn't the only one.

A wall away, shrouded in mid-afternoon shadows and dully looking forward, Shiro sat on his California king with an indolently rolling jaw. He'd been chewing a Little Debbie apple pie and clenching his PS4's controller for the past ten minutes, watching the Kingdom Hearts opener in a condescendingly endless loop. He'd tried to play Final Fantasy to distract himself, but it required too much attention. He'd settled on diet Final Fantasy instead.

Shiro's abdomen was full of sutures, but in all his embarrassingly melodramatic glory, he knew there was one place that was yet to be stitched.

His heart.

"And I hate myself," he breathed.

Not for hurting Keith, but for thinking that.

Shiro shifted upright on the cold bed, grunting through the ache in his gut before shoving the rest of the pie into his mouth. The only company he'd had in days was the plastic cake wrappers he kept falling asleep beside and his growing body odor. Sometimes he changed sweatpants before answering the door for room service, but if he moved for any other reason, then it was to piss and forget to flush. He couldn't tell if he was forgetting by accident or if it was his subconscious looking to punish him. He supposed it didn't matter.

It wasn't like anyone else was using the bathroom, especially not Keith.

Keith.

Back when Shiro still let the staff into his room with bleach, Keith and he would take long morning showers together. Pressed against the wall with pine scented suds creeping down the small of Keith's back, he'd kiss his shoulders and suck bruises to their peaks. Humming and dragging his open mouth along the hollows of Keith's throat, Keith always did his best to stay smug, never willing to submit to the cries that climbed his throat. Usually, Keith was already stretched, but Shiro would still finger him open until Keith slammed his fist against the marble and impatiently ask -- _What are you waiting for?_

Wasn't that just the theme?

Shiro freed the controller from his vice grip and threw his legs over the side of the mattress. Beyond the door, he could hear the murmuring of his friends. They'd been haunting his apartment for days. If he had wanted to, then he could've eavesdropped on their conversations, but the thought of hearing them talk about how he was being a bad team leader didn't sit well with his already short-circuited self-esteem.

He groaned in spite of himself and stood with a stretch. His hand dipped down, and he scratched his untamed happy trail before reaching to glide his fingers along his stubble. He needed to shave before his meeting with Allura, but then again, why did it matter? Would Allura really judge him for not shaving considering what he'd been through?

Yes. The answer was a 'definitely yes.'

Shiro showered and contemplated becoming one with a turkey in the rain. After opening his mouth and deciding drowning that way would take too long, he cut the water and proceeded to shave. He rubbed enough moisturizer into his skin to risk turning it into butterscotch pudding and then glumly stared into the mirror, assessing the core of his fading beauty.

No wonder Keith wanted to kill him.

Shiro disappeared into the bedroom and reached for the remote to his sound system. Being a consistent man, he had listened to Kanye West nonstop since being discharged from the hospital. _Heartless_ floated from his speakers, and Shiro could've sworn he heard Lance's laughter outside the bedroom door. He ignored it and yanked open his closet doors, mouthing along to the lyrics.

Allura would never forgive him for walking into a meeting in sweats, so he yanked out a pair of black pants and a cashmere V-neck sweater. Stiff and tired, he stepped into the pants only to realize the fabric felt different on his legs. Shiro's lips tilted into a frown, and he arched an eyebrow as he stared at himself in the full body mirror. Hands on his waist and shirtless, he hunched forward and thought — _Maybe I look different?_

Something cracked, like a neck in a head-on collision.

He was gaining weight.

Shiro's hand reached for his throat, and he tried to remember his last green smoothie. When he realized he didn't have an inkling of an idea, he thrust his fingers into his bangs and inhaled through clenched teeth.

He had to find Keith.

Shiro darted toward his bedroom door and flung it open.

Pidge jumped and grabbed their chest with a sharp exhale, knocking over Lance's carefully constructed mug stack. "Don't do _that_!"

He wondered if he genuinely looked that bad, but to be frank, his hair was the fluffiest and most styled it'd looked in weeks and there was actual color in his complexion. Standing before his team—looking entirely the same if not better—he inhaled and clutched the doorframe. His knuckles were white and painfully tense.

"Lance, after this meeting, we're going for a run."

"Welcome back from the dead," Hunk said, helping Lance clean up the mug disaster.

Shiro pushed away from the door and exhaled. "Don't worry. I'm still dead."

"You know," Lance began, the haughtiness in his voice reaching for God and Jesus alike, "for someone who's a Not Boyfriend, you're really tore up over him."

Pidge grinned. "You mean unofficial bitter ex-boyfriend, right?"

Shiro ignored their high five.

Instead of humoring what he would've called 'insensitivity,' he strode across the dining room and opened his fridge door. He tugged out semi-wilted spinach and decided his standards hadn't wholly returned. Shiro dumped the leaves into a Ninja and pilfered his freezer for frozen bananas. Digging a banana out of the bag with one hand, he reached with the other and opened a cabinet. Without looking, he extracted a wide, red container of protein powder and spun the lid.

Red.

 _Stop it_ , he begged himself. _Stop._

"Have you seen the killer robot Keith left you yet?" Pidge asked.

Shiro paused mid-scoop. "Killer robot?"

Hunk nodded, suddenly standing for more Bustelo. "We just kind of left him. We didn't know what else to do. I mean, we tried putting a blanket over him, but it didn't do a lot except make him beep, which got annoying pretty fast."

"Him?" Shiro asked, baffled by the nonchalance. 

"I named him Rover," Pidge said, evidently proud.

"Where…" Shiro glanced from left to right, suddenly uneasy. "Where is it?"

"Probably stuck under the coffee table again," they said. "He'll let us know, though."

Hunk motioned for Shiro to follow him into the living room. Shiro lowered the scooper and pushed away from the counter, arms falling across his chest but not quite turning into a hug. At first, he didn't see anything out of the ordinary. The couch hadn't been moved to make room for an imposter, and the coffee table didn't seem shifted. His teammates had mentioned the killer robot taking up residency beneath said table, but there obviously wasn't enough space for something Shiro would consider a threat.

It wouldn't be the first time he was wrong. After all, Keith had stabbed him.

"You've got to be kidding me," Shiro murmured.

"Be careful," Hunk warned and pointed at the floor, at the robot. "He's an ankle biter."

The 'ankle biter' was a red Roomba, but not any red Roomba. Its haunting color aside, the top of the vacuum had been re-engineered using a pinwheel of butcher knives and a generous amount of duct tape. It spun around Shiro's white rug, devouring crumbs. It seemed non-threatening until Shiro recalled that the only way he would've found it had it not been for his friends would've been a midnight altercation in the dark.

"It's kind of ingenious," Pidge said, appearing behind the two men. "Keith wasn't the team's engineer or anything, but its passive aggressiveness is innovative."

Rover spun around and crept toward Shiro. He stepped back, but it continued its pursuit. Shiro caught the back of the couch and jumped onto a cushion. One of Rover's blades prodded the furniture's leg again and again, and Shiro decided Rover definitely wouldn't have been the most comfortable surprise.

Right in the Achilles' heel, even.

"Why haven't you gotten rid of it?" Shiro asked, unknowingly pouting.

Rover continued to stab.

"I don't like confrontation," Hunk said.

Rover was still stabbing.

They paused and watched the robot in silence.

Lance's feet settled against the floor with a quiet smack, and he appeared in the living room. "But seriously, what're we going to do about Keith? Allura's going to put a bounty on him at this rate."

"I don't know," Shiro admitted. "But an execution isn't an option.".

His expression softened at the horrible thought. He watched Rover give up his assault and pursue Lance instead. Lance climbed onto the chair with a yelp and pointed his gun at the robot. Without a warning, he pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

"Foiled by safety precautions again."

Shiro pursed his lips and returned to the initial question. "We can't let Allura give the order to take him out. Something's not right here. Keith wouldn't…"

Pidge blew a raspberry, effectively interrupting him. "You're _not_ implying going AWOL, are you?"

Hunk raised both palms. "No way, man. I've got bills. I can't get blacklisted by the government, especially not the alien side. They make _everything_ disappear."

"Team Voltron doesn't leave anyone behind, especially when a team member is under stress," Shiro tried.

He didn't sound convinced.

Hunk definitely wasn't convinced.

"Buddy, I know you're tore up about Keith hating you—"

Shiro flinched. The vein along his forehead stood out like a 3D movie, reaching for the audience.

"He doesn't hate me. He avoided vital organs. I'm still _alive_."

" _Don't worry. I'm still dead."_

### ii.

"It's imperative you remain out of sight, Kogane. It would be an insult to myself if you died during your first operation."

Keith stood in front of a dark screen, arms draped across his chest and weight shifted onto a single foot. He was wearing a red latex bodysuit that clung to every crevice his form offered and smack dab on his chest sat the black Galra insignia. Strapped along his back was a matte black sword that magnetically collapsed into a laser blaster. The weapon was precisely customized to Keith's grip and just that morning he'd performed a mandatory execution with its blade.

"Remain out of sight?" Keith asked, challenging. "That sounds boring."

A low chuckle emitted from the display, and Keith pointedly rolled his eyes. It was bold, but he knew how important he was to Zarkon. 

"As appreciated as your enthusiasm is, you'll remain in civilian form until notified. Your intel about the stolen Galra software in Shirogane's arm has done more than enough good for now. When the override is complete and we have him captured and properly indoctrinated into the Galra cause, we'll reunite you and have you lead the Human Division together."

Keith's nose flared. "Don't bother."

A chilly pause followed, and when Keith was sure the connection had faltered, Zarkon's voice returned.

"You were tested using advanced Altean technology to determine your compatibility. Not a pair in the Altean Sector has proven to be more productive. You _will_ work together, relational tension or not, and _you_ will follow my orders. Otherwise, I'll see that your minds are aerated and you're properly disposed of. Is that clear?"

Keith shifted his gaze to the side. "Understood, sir. I apologize for the petulance."

"Pardoned. Sendak will provide you with the appropriate relocation files. Unlike the Altean Sector, we do not allow intergroup fornication. I suggest you keep that in mind."

Keith righted his shoulders.

"You're dismissed," Zarkon continued. "Vrepit sa."

"Vrepit sa," Keith said, every syllable hitting like a hammer.

He turned on a heel, tied back hair whipping behind him, and strode outside Zarkon's "office." The alien hadn't spent time on Earth since the 1950s. That was all Keith knew, and he understood better than to question an elite alien implantation and their secrets. He figured their history would leak in due time.

Keith's white, knee-high boots smacked the concrete floor. He kept his eyes forward and slated, cold even in their warm lavender color. He turned a corner and ignored the unrelenting stares of passing Galra. They loved to look, to whisper. He was the most intriguing gossip they'd had in years.

He'd once heard he was the start of Zarkon's passion project.

Whatever that meant.

"Kogane, do you have a minute?"

He recognized Thace's voice.

Keith paused, casting a look over his shoulder.

Thace was a higher up teetering on level with Sendak. They'd only spoken to one another when Keith first reported to Zarkon's base in LA, ready to divulge his traitorous information. It was Thace who had overseen his interviews, brain scans, and unfortunately for them both, his cavity search. Keith had done his best to burn that one from his memory, and from Thace's dulled demeanor during the search, he figured it was mutual.

Currently, they were in an underground asylum outside Las Vegas, veiled by both the desert and twenty feet of dirt woven with invisibility grids. The hallways were dim, a dull purplish gray with black concrete floors, and they were lit by gratuitous Galran characters. The words emitted a taunting magenta glow and created eerie shadows at every turn. It didn't help Keith's nerves knowing the words themselves were excerpts from the Galran Code of Ethics.

 _Hivemind_ , Keith regularly reminded himself. _I've walked into a hivemind._

"I'm on my way to grab relocation papers from Sendak," Keith explained and turned to face him. "Zarkon wants me gone tonight."

"Then you know he intends to make you head of the Human Division," Thace said, words too distant to read.

Keith blinked. "He told me."

"It's unusual for a human to handle it so calmly. I came here to warn you of the implications, but if Lord Zarkon has already explained the position to you and your heartrate is as slow as it is, then you must not be worried. Humans have a very different sense of loyalty to its species. I assumed…"

"Wait—" Keith looked to the side, hesitating. "He didn't tell me what the Human Division is. I just know how to follow orders. I assumed someone would give me the paperwork once Shiro was detained."

Thace stood straight and glanced to the left and then to the right. He reached for Keith's bicep and firmly guided him down the hallway and around another bend. They didn't enter Sendak's office but walked past the black doors. Keith didn't appreciate being handled by anyone whose name wasn't Takashi, but he bit that thought in two as they drifted toward an empty lounge. Only when they were inside and the door was sealed shut did Thace speak.

"The Human Division was once a sanctioned part of the United States' government that eventually bled into Earth's international affairs. In exchange for resources, mainly quintessence, your planet donated human lives to our research facilities several galaxies away." Thace waited for Keith's reaction, and when he realized Keith stood before him unflinching, he narrowed his stare. "In the 1970s, your species became suspicious of the disappearances, and after a close call, your government broke the treaty."

Keith shifted his mouth to the side. "I've heard of the Galra and Human Alliance pre-collapse, but I didn't realize… We were giving your kind bodies…"

"Not just bodies. We received living human beings. I know your type toys with body tills where you examine your kind as it decomposes. I can promise it was not like that. The Galra are beyond that brand of primitive decoding. Decomposition is simple."

Keith closed his eyes. He furrowed his brow and rubbed his temples. "So it doesn't exist anymore."

"It does, but it doesn't." Thace paused and looked toward a camera. His eyes darkened, and Keith peered into the illuminated yellow, doing his best to read the creature's emotions. "The Galra created an independent Human Division in the 80s. Earth's intergalactic politics are limited if not nonexistent. Though it's difficult to find humans with the emotional build for the job, Zarkon recreated the Human Division by recruiting humans willing to farm their own kind."

Keith tied down his disgust and cleared his throat. "If we're _primitive_ , then why are you so interested in studying us? What do we even have to offer?"

Thace tilted his head. "You _are_ primitive, and your kind lives for a very limited amount of time, but you're also impossibly resilient. There are threads of humans that show signs for great evolutionary potential. The Galra begin considering their allies early on, Keith. It's how the Galra Empire has expanded so far."

Nauseous, he planted his hands on his hips and lifted his head. "We won't evolve organically if Zarkon interferes. That's basic biology."

"He's hardly interfering. The majority of your kind doesn't believe in us." Thace crossed his arms, suddenly looking Keith over as if inspecting a product. "This is a test run. Successfully overriding Shirogane's arm and taking out the Altean Sector and the rest of Team Voltron is solely for observational purposes. It's to see how your kind reacts and how quickly it rebuilds without alarming the entire human species. Lord Zarkon is interested in your kind's empathy and self-preservation."

Keith jolted.

"What do you mean _take out_ Team Voltron?"

"Kill, Keith." Keith's eyes widened and Thace nodded. It was the reaction he'd been looking for. "I see the nature of the mission wasn't fully explained to you. You're a part of the Galra, and if only by order, their lives are no longer allowed to matter to you."

"You can't order me not to…" Keith stopped short, gritting his teeth. "Is this why he's ordered me to relocate?"

"Humans are delicate, but no. As stated, it's to keep you out of sight. It's to keep you alive until Shirogane is your only target." Thace pressed his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. "I'm not telling you this to sway you from the Human Division. You'd live a life no other human has. You'd hardly spend time on Earth. You'd be wealthy, you could mate with whoever you wanted, and we even have experimental interspecies studies, but I believe Zarkon underestimates the amount of time it takes for these ideas to settle with humans, even ones of your kind."

"My _kind_?" Keith asked. "What does that even mean?"

"You're more Galra in disposition than you are human. Even now, after I've said all of this, you're unusually calm in the face of farming your own. Why is that?"

Keith wrinkled his nose. He spoke before he thought, the words biting. "Humans aren't uniform. We don't understand our own psychology, and we've proven to be corrupt across the board."

"Interesting," Thace said and weakly smiled. It was almost sad. "I was beginning to think you joined the Galra because of a brawl between you and your mate. It's good to know that's not the case. Humankind's forced monogamy is one of your social aspects the Druids spend too much time examining. I think they find it endearing, but they won't admit it."

"We believe love is a choice."

But Keith heard the dullness in his words. It was difficult to continue the thought. All at once, his throat felt tight and his brow furrowed in distress.

"The fact we're above instinct is what makes us different from other animals on our planet." Keith decided to rewind, but more for himself than his reputation. "And Shiro isn't my _mate_. I _stabbed_ him."

"I'll remember to tell the Druids that." Thace nodded toward the door, ignoring Keith's denial. Keith tried not to puff up. "You've been properly warned, and now I can feel at ease knowing you'll be adjusted to the terms before your first mission as head of the department. I believe we've kept Sendak waiting long enough."

Keith knew a dismissal when he heard one. He curtly nodded, and while he considered thanking him, simply turned and left the dark lounge and its hauntingly empty chairs.

He didn't turn to see if Thace was following him. Keith reached for his chest and squeezed his heart, aware of the palpitations.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

_Why are you doing this to me?_

 

No longer being a member of Team Voltron came with an unprecedented amount of stress. His conversation with Thace hadn't helped.

Having spent the entirety of his undergraduate career with the other members, Keith realized he wasn't as accustomed to being alone as he'd told both himself and Zarkon. It was an unspoken truth that the team's camaraderie went far beyond toying with robotics and stargazing while exchanging theories about binary black holes.

It was the intermittency.

The moments between career and academia were what ultimately caught the eye of the Altean Sector. The fact that the five of them had managed to come from such differentiating backgrounds and still loved one another surpassed the weight of their educations and the importance of a transcript. What was intellect if it couldn't manifest together as a unit? What was a degree if its utilization grew dusty once one walked across the stage? When brought together, the Team Voltron created its own super being that surpassed teams that'd come before it.

Even Lance stood within the group with a kind of clarity and precision that was more than where his sniper rifle could hit. He hadn't gone to MIT but found Keith and Hunk through an anonymous hacking server that had once compromised national security.

" _My name's Lance. I love Golden Retrievers, long walks on the beach, and there's now an automatic aimed at the back of your heads. One more step and all of my computers will wipe themselves clean. Nice to finally meet you guys, though. Did you get that message I sent about that concert next month?"_

Keith had roundhouse kicked Lance onto his ass, but afterward, they'd gone for drinks at Lance's family restaurant. Lance taught Keith how to snort cocaine off a tin toilet paper dispenser, and Shiro watched them make out before snatching up a vomiting Pidge and Hunk. That night, all five of them fell asleep on Lance's bed in a mass of entangled limbs. They'd woken up to a pot of coffee from Lance's mother, an ex-pilot for the United States' government and Altean Sector.

They'd taken Lance back to the states the following week.

_I'm alone._

For the first time, Keith was navigating something so much bigger than he could have ever dreamed of becoming, and he was doing it alone.

Whether or not Shiro was the best fit for leader didn't matter to Keith now that he caught himself reaching for his phone whenever he had a question, insecurity or moment of uncertainty. At the end of the day, Shiro had been his pinnacle of light, his goddamn hope.

Did he regret his decision?

No.

But that was for other reasons. Again, he'd made the executive decision to take this on alone. Shiro's inability to commit and his thirst for validation were nothing in regards to the big picture. He had to stick to the path before anyone could get hurt.

Thace had been right about humans.

They were too empathetic and resilient, and in Keith's opinion, they were usually those things in the least beneficial ways. In order to make change and save his people, he'd sacrificed so many things.

Maybe seeming a little Galra wasn't as big of an insult as he'd once framed it to be.

Maybe it would help him.

### iii.

_"You can confirm he's leaked information?"_

" _That's what he told me. Maybe he would've come back if he didn't feel doomed, but I think he knew there was no way even before he stabbed me."_

" _Shiro, you know what this means. You know what we're going to have to do, don't you? This is a regular Blue Dye."_

" _I do."_

_"You're the only one close enough to Keith to take him out. We trained you two together after the compatibility examination for this very reason. You never create a team with a member stronger than the sum of its parts."_

 

Shiro had never coined himself as much of a stalker. At least, not in the traditional sense. To be honest, it wasn't in his disposition to be untrusting. He was barely curious on a good day, and he really did have too much faith in humankind for his own good.

That was how he'd ended up stabbed.

Currently seated in the very Mercedes he'd used to chase Keith down, he was watching the holographic screen swerve through Keith's emotions, his location, heartrate, and so on and so forth. All invasive, all kind of creepy, but Shiro was thankful the Altean Sector was still unaware he had the illegal software in his car.

Mostly, he was surprised the Galra hadn't surgically removed his microchip.

Then again, it was nearly impossible to detect. This was mainly so that if a team member was detained by one government branch that was unaware of the Altean Sector, then the agent wouldn't be outed. It was like hiding one's own from his own—Shiro pretended it made sense.

"Why are you in _Alaska_?" Shiro murmured to himself, leaned forward as he fixed his silver over-the-ear headphones. Keith's heartbeat thrummed in his ears as Kanye West and JAY-Z's magnificent _Otis_ drifted through his speakers.

Duets really got to Shiro, especially now.

He bit into his celery stick and grabbed the wireless keyboard. Keith was in Anchorage, which sounded like a prison. Shiro was pretty sure a single block in LA had more people than the entirety of Alaska, let alone _Anchorage_.

"Alaska it is," he grumbled and opened another holographic window. He sent an email to his private travel coordinator, and with a lopsided frown, remembered Keith had destroyed his winter wardrobe. At least his boots were still in good condition. "Brat."

Brat who had also stabbed him.

He wasn't allowed to tell the others where he was going. It was a rare solo mission, but that didn't stop Shiro from telling his entire team over a pizza box. Allura thought it was vital for him to go in alone, but Shiro knew better. He was a force to be reckoned with in terms of Keith's emotional sensitivities, but something told Shiro friendship might save his life during this mission. He didn't trust himself or his foresight anymore. 

Again, it was the stabbing thing.

Shiro was having a hard time moving past that.

Much to his displeasure, he was in Alaska the next day. Allura wanted Keith cleaned from the system as soon as possible, and while Shiro had expressed some enthusiasm for the idea, he had about a hundred ulterior motives. He thought about what he'd do if he lost his job as soon as he stepped off the private jet, tongue tasting like champagne and a black parka swaddling his face. He supposed he could go into academic research, which would pay absolutely nothing. If that didn't work out, then porn sounded like an option. Being blacklisted by the government genuinely didn't give him a broad option of post-spy career choices.

He deflated at this realization and strode through the bustling Ted Stevens airport. Out front, an inconspicuous Sedan was waiting for him, but he'd requested no driver. At the rate life was going, he had no reason to trust anyone behind the wheel who wasn't him.

Across the city, there was a safe house waiting for him, but Shiro wasn't in the mood for settling. He wanted to eat a whole box of Twinkies and to find Keith. Shiro could only let himself do one of those things. While he wasn't allowed to bring his Mercedes with the convenient software, he had pointedly cross-examined Keith's daily routine, gathering the data that nailed his habits down to mere seconds.

Shiro checked the time and knew Keith was at a coffee shop downtown. The name was about bears or something, and he wondered if Alaska wanted to be a parody of itself. If he drove fast enough, then he'd be able to make it to the front of the café before Keith ditched it for his afternoon walk through the streets. From what Shiro could see in his patterns, Keith aimlessly wandered or at least tried to make it look that way. He doubted it was without design.

Unlike in LA, Shiro didn't get stuck in traffic.

After a fight with the GPS, he parked behind a rusted maroon minivan and leaned his seat back to watch and maybe nap. It was vital for Shiro to make sure it was actually _his_ Keith and not a trap created by the Galra. Beside him was the gun Pidge and Hunk had forced into his hands, and both of his doors were locked tight. Shiro reached and fixed his black beanie, but he stopped mid-pull when he caught a glint of red.

The Menace appeared out front. Not to leave, though. It was too early for that. Keith was there to smoke, but Keith didn't smoke. Shiro figured it was to build whatever character he was pretending to be while hiding out. Had he ran from the Galra? Unlikely. But then, why would they think to relocate him, and of all places, why the hell was he in Alaska? Keith stuck out.

Well, maybe he just stuck out to Shiro. Keith was currently dressed in a simple black sweater with a black snapback turned backward. His boots were to the thigh, his red leather jacket cut close, and for some reason, his labret was pierced. Shiro wasn't sure how he felt about the look.

He kind of liked it.

Keith didn't notice him. His eyes were on his phone's screen, and when his gaze momentarily flicked upward, Shiro realized he looked tired. It was only instinct for his heart to reach for the man, but he pushed a hand down his face and reminded himself Keith had hurt him.

Then again, he'd hurt Keith.

God, he'd really hurt Keith.

Shiro took his self-loathing and set it aside to watch Keith suck his piercing. The dark circles beneath his eyes aged him into the late twenties the kid was fast approaching, and the weak slump in his shoulders spoke volumes to Shiro. From what he'd gathered, Keith was being kept on a short leash with an even tighter budget, but it made sense. A rich pretty boy was quick to garner attention, and that was the exact opposite of what Keith wanted.

"Shit," Shiro whispered to himself.

He didn't understand how it'd gotten this bad.

Shiro didn't understand what was wrong with himself, even. Who in their right mind passed up Keith in the name of a job?

Keith was literally so beautiful in both body and mind sometimes Shiro's lungs threatened to collapse when the other moved in front of him. Always acting as if he loathed the attention he received for being just those things, Keith could burn cities with his existence.

He had to wonder if that's what'd happened. Had Keith realized his full potential and ran with it? Could love loss really inspire someone to act so senselessly?

The thought enraged Shiro for many reasons, but mostly because he'd forced himself not to openly give himself to Keith for the Greater Good. He could've, but he had a job.

He _cared_ about the human race.

Where was Keith in that? And if that code wasn't mutual, then what was the point? Could he love someone who was so willing to race toward intergalactic parasites?

Keith finished his cigarette and returned to the inside of the coffee shop. Once inside, Shiro relaxed the tension in his shoulders. It was an hour before Keith dipped from the establishment with a to-go cup and airily drifted through his chilly walk.

While Shiro knew better than to follow him, he did park outside of the apartment complex Keith was currently residing in—a simple beige stack of windows with uninspiring bushes out front. Just as the data had gathered, Keith appeared in front his apartment and stepped inside at exactly 4 PM. Depending on Keith's mood, he'd either make something for dinner, grab a salad from a local convenience store or go to the grocery.

Shiro had his proof that Keith was present. There was no reason for him to stick around, but he figured lingering was the same as gathering intel. Really, though. His guts were roiling, his heart was heavy and he couldn't stop clenching the steering wheel.

He wanted to go in.

He wanted to _talk_.

With his eyes locked onto the car parked in front of him, Shiro flexed his fingers around the wheel. He didn't notice the figure approaching his car. Not until they tapped their knuckles against the window, at least. That clean rapping caused Shiro to start, and he blinked before questioning how the hell he'd even managed to land his current job.

He was the worst spy he knew.

"Tinted windows might be better next time."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a YYH reference in here.
> 
> Also, no beta because I thrive on embarrassing myself. All mistakes are my own. The next chapter is going to be the most NSFW, so gird your loins, I guess.

 

 

### i.

" _Tinted windows might be better next time."_

Shiro's index finger jabbed a button to roll down the Sedan's not-tinted passenger window an inch. Expression unmoved, he leaned over and peered at the figure who had driven home Shiro's self-loathing observation. He was bad at his job. There was no getting around it.

"Aren't you retired yet?" Shiro asked, mouth making like gravity and falling. "Aren't you _dead_ yet?"

"If I had a choice between the latter and being in this godforsaken place, then you bet your ass I'd take the latter, Shirogane. Unlock the door."

Shiro didn't unlock the door.

"You are cruisin' for a bruisin'."

Iverson stared Shiro down with a leer that once gave Shiro hives. It now produced lukewarm indifference. He'd long since passed the trainee phase where he could take the mentor entirely serious, but this was mostly due to the Christmas Eve he and the rest of Team Voltron spent with Iverson and his wife. They'd knocked back tequila shots in a Floridian retirement home until Christmas Day sunrise. Afterward, they grilled steaks half-sober and slept into the afternoon. It was the same Christmas Keith and Shiro bought each other cars and the same Christmas Iverson reminded Shiro romance within teams would always be a dangerous cocktail.

" _You never do that, kiddo. They always put you under the table. Can't tell you how many teams I've seen shatter because someone screwed around. I didn't meet the misses in the Altean Sector."_

" _Keith and I are best friends."_

" _That fool's paradise you've got going on is gonna get you. Kogane isn't here to be your best friend, and I think you'd be sour if he started to act like he was."_

Shiro would have sent a cold front to anyone else, but rather than ruin the holiday spirit, asked Iverson to tell him how he'd lost his eye for the hundredth time. The story changed with each retelling, but this time it involved an alligator and blood in his lunch. 

Memories aside, Iverson wasn't in the mood to tell a story. The semi-retired Commander stood outside Shiro's door, bundled and beard frozen stiff. He hated the cold.

"This is my mission," Shiro yelled through the glass. "Find your own car."

He didn't touch the unlock button, but the doors unlocked with a condescending click. Iverson lifted his override remote and swung the keychain around his finger before Shiro could scowl.

For him, this was like his father finding raunchy porn under his bed. The emotional masturbation that came with sitting outside Keith's apartment complex had been gratifying in a way that made his thighs tense and heart thunder, but as the door peeled open, Shiro decided he wanted to die. Never before in his life had he turned as cold simply because of someone's voice. Maybe he was dead and this was hell. If so, it explained a lot.

Iverson plopped down in the passenger seat. He fished out a cigar from his North Face's pocket and wetly wrapped his lips around the sticky end, his single eye narrowed ahead. He didn't look at Shiro and simply let Kanye's _Fade_ fill the silence between them for an unnecessary amount of time.

Shiro reached between his thighs for a carrot stick and pointedly bit down with a dull crunch. Like a cow with cud, he lazily chewed.

"I don't trust you as far as I can throw you, boy."

"Shouldn't have hired me then," Shiro dryly said, sinking. "Did Allura send you to babysit me? Is that what this is?"

"She had every reason to send me."

Shiro rubbed his mouth and inhaled. "I can handle this."

"If you knew how to handle this, then you wouldn't have emotionally tortured a teammate into jettisoning himself."

The low blow made Shiro reach forward and turn off the Kanye album. He shifted in his seat and turned his whole torso toward Iverson who had finally lit his cigar. Shiro waited for the man to say more, but when he only breathed out smoke, Shiro reached and squeezed the top of the steering wheel. Having someone else there meant there was no way for him to speak with Keith one-on-one. Not if he wanted to maintain the façade he was following orders. He was going to have to go to great lengths for the conversation he wanted.

"Everything's bugged then," Shiro said, knowing without needing an answer.

"Your body is bugged."

Shiro tilted back his head and looked toward Keith's bedroom window, frustrated knowing the man was so close yet so far. He'd gone from being in Keith's presence every day of his life to not receiving a text message. The withdrawal was making itself known with the close proximity. The ache spun itself a web behind his pubic bone, and the longing thrum to have Keith sleeping beside him was giving Shiro a vulnerability he had never known. He reached up and shoved back his bangs, fingers rubbing his fade.

"Love's a bitch," Iverson said.

"I'm going to have to kill him," Shiro said. "That's not love."

"In what we do, love is a gray area. Allura killed her father when the Galra compromised his brain, but she did it because she knew it put humanity at risk. It was what her father would have wanted. If she hadn't pulled the trigger, then the Altean Sector would have fallen. She's the standard for your entire generation. She loved her father. She looked up to him. If she hadn't, then Coran wouldn't have stayed behind to help with the transition of power or become her advisor."

This was a story that haunted the Altean Sector, but it mostly haunted Shiro. Allura had personally told him the story before handing him the final paperwork meant to certify his leadership.

" _You're going to make hard choices, Shiro. There will be days when you want to be a person with his own life, but we don't get that. Your life is humanity's."_

"There's nothing to do here," Iverson said and filled the car with smoke. "Let's get food. Your celery and carrot stick stash is giving me indigestion." 

 

 

 

### ii.

The safe house was located along the icy coast of the Knik Arm's mouth, an inconspicuous one-bedroom cabin framed by the Chugach mountains. Though shivering, Shiro stood on his house's front porch and stared across the lapping water at Point Mackenzie. The white tops were swaddled by the purple glow of a dying day, and Shiro leaned over the guardrail with a slight lean, face landing in his gloved fingers. They pushed through his hair and disappeared into his parka.

" _We won't have these jobs forever," Keith murmured, head on a pillow and face turned toward the wall, eyes shut._

_Shiro's head was on his chest, bionic fist casually settled on Keith's navel. His furrowed brow quivered, but he didn't reply. He shifted his head to kiss Keith's pectoral instead and gruffly exhaled. Unprompted, Keith pushed his fingers through Shiro's hair, stroking._

" _Thinking about afterward?" Shiro asked._

" _Don't you?"_

" _No," Shiro admitted._

_Shiro noticed when Keith's hand stopped, but Shiro continued his thought._

_"_ _People drop like flies here. I don't want to think about a life without you. It's easier to live in the now than make believe something that we might have to spend the rest of our lives knowing we'll never have."_

" _Why are you only pragmatic when it comes to us?"_

Whether it was the coldness or the misery didn't matter. Shiro woke up to burning joints and Iverson sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and eyes on a holographic monitor. The sun was taking too long to rise when Shiro poured himself some coffee, and he continued to gaze at the whitecaps. The sun's oncoming swell broke his thrall, and he pushed away from the cold sink and sat across from his babysitter. 

"Do it before you overthink it," Iverson suggested, calloused fingers typing away at Galra coding.

No 'good morning.' Simply 'do your job.'

"Something about it doesn't add up."

"Your self-perception. That's what."

"Keith isn't this stupid," Shiro snapped back. He set down his cup and stared hard at Iverson's unmoved face. The typing continued. "I know him better than anyone else."

"Don't delude yourself," he said. "If you knew him, then you would've never been stabbed. I'll take you off this mission if you can't get it together, Shirogane. You're acting the way Allura predicted you would."

"Keith mentioned something about my arm being stolen technology from the Galra. I can't stop thinking about it." Shiro lifted his bionic hand and slowly closed its fist. "Why would he tell me that?"

Iverson stopped typing. "He wouldn't unless he was attempting to bait you. Did you give that information to the Altean Sector?"

Shiro didn't answer the question. "There are multiple reasons to bait someone."

"Statistically, it's to kill someone."

Shiro leered, but he said nothing and downed his coffee, socked toes digging into the wood grain. More silence filled the cabin, and it was only intermittently interrupted by breakfast's sizzle. This silence gave Shiro time to gather himself and remember who he was outside Keith's abandonment. Thoughts such as noses ramming into brain cavities with sick cracks, throats being slit and the desperate plead for one more day to live ricocheted through his consciousness.

Only when Shiro was bundled and yanking on a black glove did he speak.

"There's another car beneath the house. I'm going to use it because of its tracking software. What are you doing other than babysitting me and watching my chip? I have to know. You've compromised my mission by being here, and now I'm not going to know if it's you or one of the Galra following me."

"I'll be here. I'm looking for anything related to Alaska in the Galra interface," Iverson said, not denying he was watching Shiro's every move. "I'll let you know if I'm going to show up."

"I'm trusting you will. This is high stakes. Keith knows every move I might make, and I don't need to be distracted right now."

"Trust me, you're doing a fine job distracting yourself without my help."

"Whose side are you on again?" Shiro mumbled and tugged on a beanie, artfully pulling his bangs forward. He snatched his keys. "You know what? Don't answer that."

"I won't, but I'll tell you something before you leave." Iverson paused and let the suspense weigh heavy. Shiro didn't humor looking over his shoulder. He impatiently waited and stared at the panel wall he was about to push in to enter a secret garage. "This has taken one of the most capable agents of his generation from the Altean Sector. If he lives to work with the Galra, then it's your head. Allura will disband Team Voltron and make sure none of you work together again."

Shiro hid his internal wince. "I'm aware."

"Act like it."

Shiro pushed the panel, and it opened over a staircase that led downward. He reached into his back pocket once the door closed behind him and retrieved the phone Pidge had built as a means to keep them off the Altean grid. It looked like an iPhone, but when Shiro opened the screen, Pidge's hacker insignia stared at him. He dialed the number, knowing he was putting everyone at risk by divulging information about Keith's technology tipoff.

"Pidge," he said, entering the garage and letting the motion sensor lights spring alive with every step. "I need you to tell me where you got the schematics for my arm's internal software."

Pidge groggily exhaled, and Shiro heard the familiar clack of fingers sweeping a keyboard. "Since when are you up this early?"

"You act like we don't have coffee together every morning," he muttered and opened the driver's side door to the black Range Rover.

"The project for your arm was built off Galra schematics and software, which we retrieved through a sentry corpse. I'm not sure how they retrieved the coding for the quintessence, but the Altean Sector is known for getting its hands on things in ways we probably don't want to know about." Pidge slurped coffee and kept typing. There was a drawn out silence followed by a light ' _huh_.'

Shiro turned the engine over. "That doesn't sound good."

"The files are gone."

"What do you mean the files are gone?"

"For the entire project behind your arm." Her discovery was followed by keys speedily sinking into their board. Pidge's silence unsettled Shiro, but he waited for them to speak first. "It was deleted recently. A few weeks ago, actually."

Shiro's pulse thumped.

"I need to talk to Keith."

"Did Keith tell you something, Shiro?"

He hesitated. "Not enough to build much of a hypothesis, but there's something."

"You have to find a way to talk to him then," Pidge said. "I'm going to call Hunk and Lance. We'll see if Lance can find out if whoever did this left a paper trail. If you get Keith to talk, call me."

 

 

 

### iii.

It wasn't like Keith to mope.

In fact, he considered himself profoundly bad at deconstructing himself enough to pout about any one thing for too long. This compartmentalizing was learned behavior from Takashi Shirogane, but Shiro still had the capacity to feel extended amounts of guilt and make himself his own spectacle (see: ass). With that in mind, Keith decided Alaska was a terrible place because it made him care too much. 

It was the air, he'd decided. It was miserably cold and every inhale stabbed his lungs like a thrown knife.

Keith had been there for what felt like a lifetime, but it was only weeks.

Seated on the living room floor with a bowl of canned tomato soup balanced on his thigh, Keith was bundled and staring at muted CNN. His iPod was docked on the iHome, and in the background, _Drunk in Love_ hummed like a warning. 

It was ironic Beyoncé's  _Lemonade_  album followed such a declaration.

The longer he listened, the lower his shoulders fel.

Keith decided he couldn't stand listening to the blatant lie and forced himself to his feet. He plopped the bowl onto the coffee table and strode across the living room. He clicked next on the shuffle, not sure how he'd ended up on a playlist that would have a Beyoncé song.

_Best Thing I Never Had_

Keith stared at the song and laughed at the odds. He tapped for the second time and stepped away from the iHome to finish his soup. Keith stopped mid-step and whipped an ugly stare over his shoulder.

_Irreplaceable_

His tongue flicked along his front teeth. Keith snatched the phone out of the dock. He changed it to another song to gamble.

_Jealous_

"Stop," Keith dully muttered.

 _Mine_ featuring Drake

His breath stuttered because of _Drake_. Keith unsteadily sank to the floor before clicking on Drake's name and hitting shuffle. Knees rising to his chest, he stared at the screen and inhaled when _Marvins Room_  appeared on the screen. The title glared at him with all the condescension in the world, and Keith flopped onto his side with a hard thud.

"No," he said, commanding the room. "Don't you dare."

Keith pursed his lips and inelegantly rolled onto his back. He brought an arm over his eyes and continued to grind his lips, fighting emotions that might have been inspired by whatever woes Drake endured.

_Love is a lie._

Objectively, _Marvins Room_ had nothing to do with his current situation.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "You're pathetic."

He really was.

Sucking his lip ring, Keith lifted an arm and turned his face into its armpit. Keith sniffed and retracted his head with a scowl.

Since leaving the Galra, he hadn't been too keen on hygiene. He told himself it was because he was busy, but unless opening cans of chicken and stars counted as a strenuous pastime, then Keith was stretching the truth. He reached down to scratch his poorly trimmed happy trail and tried to remember his thousand-dollar skin care routine. He was currently using Clinique and the thought alone made him longingly look at his gas oven.

Now that things had settled and he was no longer teeming with rage, Keith had hit the barrel's bottom of post-'tried to slaughter my not-boyfriend' grief. He was entering the acceptance stage where he had to face the consequences of his actions. This evoked side effects such as binge eating Easy Mac and hiding his bulk purchases of the macaroni and cheese with pre-made southwest salads. Three were rotting away in his refrigerator as he rotted on the inside, but that didn't stop him from telling himself he'd start eating healthy again.

Masturbation made him cry.

This was probably because Keith had a tendency to jerk-off to pornography featuring beefcake men with poorly done fades. That and the barricade of plastic containers lined with crusted artificial cheese closing in on him felt like a metaphor for his life. At one point, he'd stroked himself so hard he elbowed a pile onto the floor. After stillness and a long examination of the potential omen, Keith had turned up the volume on his computer. Hand robotically jerking, he'd mentally critiqued camera angles while numbly watching an asshole that wasn't his get devastated.

His breathing had hitched. His thighs had trembled as harsh gasping ripped from the back of his throat. It'd even felt good enough to make his hips lurch toward his loose fist.

It wasn't until his stomach was misted by ribbons of clouded white did he realize he was shaking from the force needed to contain a sob. Mouth parting in a rasp, the tears unexpectedly dripped.

_You weren't good enough._

See? Pathetic.

Keith rolled onto his stomach and stared at his tightly monitored phone. He was able to read news outlets and stalk people from old social media accounts, but posting was forbidden. Out of self-loathing, he decided to open Shiro's Instagram to see if he'd moved on already. The man's elasticity was reputable. He ended relationships and started them without a twitch, and Keith wondered how Shiro's ability to be devoid of emotion had been so lost on him, shocking enough to spur pseudo-murder.

He scrolled the account.

There hadn't been a post in weeks. Not since Keith became the Team Voltron turncoat. This made sense considering anything Shiro posted could be used by the Galra, but Keith was still disappointed.

Due to what Keith had long since accepted as his profound self-loathing, he paused on the grid to stare emptily at a picture of himself. It wasn't the only one featuring him, but it was the only one that didn't also contain Shiro. He remembered the image well simply because he remembered the night itself, but mostly, the Louboutin Roadie Flats he was wearing. Shadowed by the abstractly bright lighting of Shiro's kitchen, Keith was lounged on the counter with a single knee lifted, smoking kush on his back as an arm hung off the marble slab's side. His hand was clinging to a killed glass of bourbon, and Keith could still hear Shiro complaining about the dripping mess.

" _Don't make life harder on the housecleaners."_

" _Get a paper towel."_

When the photo was taken, Keith had known he was going to betray the Altean Sector, and from what he could gather, Shiro had known, too.

They'd ordered pizza that night, but Keith hadn't dressed down from the club outing with friends. He was drunk and his heart was going a million miles per second. Ever since meeting with Sendak, he'd been an internalized mess conditioned not to panic, but his hands were at his own throat. He was decimating something he loved. He was going to hurt the man he loved.

" _If things were different, do you think we'd see one another any less?" Keith asked from the countertop. "Would you get married? Would you move on from this?"_

" _From this," Shiro echoed._

_Shiro lifted his glass and inspected the rim, waiting for Keith to elaborate._

" _You look good like that," Shiro said when Keith didn't give an inch._

" _I always look good."_

_The words were numb, matter-of-fact._

" _You do," Shiro confirmed._

_He took the picture without Keith knowing. Only later would Keith find the captured moment cruel, but his then drunken brain was oblivious to Shiro's disregard._

_Keith took a hit and blew milky smoke above his face, booted toes tapping. Keith supposed he should feel tense, but he realized he was good at pretending. Shiro had conditioned him to express nothing._

" _You okay?" Shiro asked._

" _Always," Keith lied._

_Shiro's took the cue to intervene the mood._

_Setting aside his glass, which he intended to refill, Shiro approached Keith's side and leaned over. He took the blunt and lazily kissed him, which Keith reciprocated until the kissing reached a frenzy; mouths splitting against each other's and breathing hot. Shiro reached for the front of Keith's shirt and clung, his tongue brushing deep inside his mouth. The possessive action should have tipped Keith off, but he didn't have faith in Shiro's feelings._

_He couldn't have guessed he knew._

" _I'm not getting married," Shiro mumbled into the kiss. He sucked the tip of Keith's tongue, and Keith used his free hand to stroke Shiro's bionic limb. "I'm not going anywhere."_

" _You will, and you'll be gone, and it'll be fine."_

" _Don't tell me what's going to happen to me."_

" _Stop_   _lying to me."_

_Unexpectedly, Shiro slammed down his bionic fist beside Keith's head. The impact caused Keith's blood to chill, but he didn't flinch. Shiro did it once, twice, and then the countertop split beneath his head._

_Keith dropped the glass to keep himself from crushing it._

_When it shattered, Keith cleared his throat, but his eyes were deadened, locked onto Shiro overhead with visible disenchantment._

" _It slipped."_

_Shiro gave him a hard stare._

" _You don't let things slip."_

_Their eyes remained locked until Shiro tossed the blunt into a nearby ashtray. Wordlessly, he hoisted a compliant Keith over his shoulder and walked them into the bedroom with long strides. When he slammed the bedroom door behind them, a picture frame banged against the wall and hit the ground._

Keith remembered the fuck.

It'd hurt, but Shiro had fucked him right. The kind of right that made him scream whenever Shiro pounded forward, split him in two with exact hip movements. It was sex that forced him to scream in disbelief with each re-entering because Keith couldn't understand why human bodies were allowed to feel that good as one. Shaking hands clinging to the bedding and thighs glistening, Keith had hung his head and ordered Shiro to fuck him harder, _harder_. 

It had occurred to him nothing would be hard enough. As always, he was asking Shiro for the impossible.

He'd loved him. It wasn't fair to love someone that much and get nothing in return.

Watering eyes on the screen, Keith continued to scroll until something made him stop. It wasn't what was technically on the screen, but more what was in its reflection.

Keith pretended not to notice and returned to his scroll. He deflated and opened his music app and dragged his thumb over the screen. He shifted through playlists, staring hard at the reflected background behind him. He paused at Kanye West and turned on _Blood on the Leaves._

Keith grunted and pushed himself onto his feet, then depositing the phone into the iHome. He waited for the music to carry and stepped away from the shelf, then reaching to tie back his hair. Keith returned to his soup. He grabbed the cooled bowl and took a slurping bite, dwelling on his sodium intake. He chewed with an unimpressed expression and watched the news, bored again.

Keith finished his meal and set down the bowl with a dead clink.

Checking his peripherals, Keith didn't see any movement. He knew better than to deviate from total normalcy and strode toward his kitchen instead, casually removing his hooded sweatshirt with a hum. He revealed a red muscle tee and flexed his arms as if stretching to prevent sleepiness. Realizing his desperate thirst, Keith tugged open his refrigerator. He inspected its insides, finding only the saddest red apple on the top shelf and those dying salads. Keith grabbed it, fetched peanut butter from a nearby cabinet and tugged open the knife drawer where he kept his Galra blaster.

It was gone.

His knuckles whitened on the handle, and Keith slowly slid the drawer shut. He carefully turned over his shoulder. The dark hallway peered back at him, but he knew better than to tell himself the monster wasn't there.

"Hi, Shiro."

For a moment, there was nothing.

"Hi, baby."

Keith sharply breathed in.

The familiar sound of a blade whipping through the air followed. Hands reaching to cover his head, Keith ducked and the thunk of stainless steel driving into a cabinet door resounded above him. He didn't have time to reach for it and arm himself. Keith darted for the kitchen's door, momentarily catching a glimpse of the shadowy figure at end of the hall. He sprinted into the living room and kicked up the coffee table, sending soup flying. Three at once, a series of knives drove into the table. The tips cut through the wood like sinking teeth, and Keith glanced at the bulletproof windows, knowing he couldn't break them. 

His sword was in his bedroom. Keith eyed the hallway Shiro was blocking. Another knife drove itself into the wood, and Keith tore his brain open trying to navigate how to get to a gun. He understood he was trapped by the apartment's circular floor plan.

"I don't want to do this," Shiro admitted, but there was something mirthful about it. Keith had only heard the tone used against enemies, and it was as infuriating as it was chilling.

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" Keith asked. He reached into his black joggers for the blade strapped to the outside of his thigh, but it wasn't there. Rookie mistake. "I killed you."

"Maybe if you'd actually tried to kill me."

"Maybe if you weren't a total cockroach."

Shiro threw the next knife with much more force, and Keith was glad the coffee table hid his smile.

"Doesn't matter anyway," Keith said, momentarily peering out from beside the table only to spring back in time to miss another knife. He wondered if he could grab it. "You were hardly worth the effort. I can think of plenty of people who deserve my premeditated murder more than you."

"Like who?"

"Your hair stylist."

"You are _really_ one to talk," Shiro said.

Keith laughed. More knives hailed against the table, and Keith knocked against it in reply.

"I've missed making fun of you," he admitted.

"Can't say it's mutual." Keith wasn't convinced. "At least I can ride you for that tacky lip piercing now. Maybe we'll level the playing field."

Keith sucked back his bottom lip with a wet pop. "Don't like it, Shiro? Not that it matters since you won't be around to let it grow on you."

"I get it, Dark Keith," Shiro said, walking out of the shadows and into the living room's doorway. Keith glanced at the framed _Alien_ poster hanging over his couch and spotted Shiro's reflection. He was casually flipping a butcher knife into the air and catching it. "You're mad about the way things panned out between us. It was getting you nowhere, and it'd been years. I was an asshole."

"Believe it or not, it's not always about you, Shiro."

"This isn't about me? Interesting. I think I had a lot to do with it."

Shiro flicked his gaze toward the very reflection Keith had spotted. They stared one another down, and Keith's eyes narrowed in on Shiro's face. Unmoved, Shiro winked at him.

It was like pulling a trigger.

With flexing biceps, Keith threw the table forward and watched it sail toward Shiro's blocking forearms. He hook-kicked the table, slamming his heel against the underside with a sharp crack. The weight of the impact caused the wood to splinter onto Shiro's frame, and Keith thrust his arm through the hole his heel created. He grasped onto Shiro's shirt and yanked him forward, only a thin plank separating them.

"I won't miss this time," Keith promised.

Shiro reached for Keith's arm, but instead of breaking it, caught Keith's elbow and jerked him closer.

"Do it," Shiro shot back. "I want to see you do it."

Pain licked Keith's arm and plummeted deep beneath the skin. Keith instinctively jerked back his hand only to yell when the embedded blade's handle caught the hole in the table. He ripped his arm through despite the pain, and the butcher knife dangled from his limb, seated right beside a precious vein.

He stared at the injury's blood and the situation came to vivid clarity. 

Shiro was going to kill him.

Takashi Shirogane, a world-class class spy, had been sent after him with a death warrant.

_Fuck._

Keith yanked the blade from his arm, and holding tight to the knife's handle, tossed aside the table. He used the utensil to parry Shiro's falling blade, and their metal met with a spark. Shiro's bionic arm clicked twice. Black geometric lines created a burning map around the limb, and at that, Keith rethought his method. Dirty. He had to fight dirty.

The lines burst into fiery blue light that mirrored Galra bionics. Shiro didn't give Keith more time to process the weaponization and struck with the bionic limb.

Keith pitched Shiro's flesh hand and dodged.

Shiro swung the blade again, and grunting, Keith flung his head to the side. He momentarily watched the knife tear through his bangs and furiously mourned his costly haircut. Barely missing a backhand from the robotic palm, Keith snatched Shiro's blade-wielding wrist and pushed against him with all his strength. He attempted to stab Shiro's torso, but Shiro seized the blade with his bionic palm and melted it. 

"You're holding back," Shiro observed and tossed his butcher knife behind him.

With the flesh hand no longer holding a weapon, Keith dropped it and drew back a fist. Shiro knocked aside Keith's melted knife and used his glowing bionic palm to catch Keith's punch. On contact, Keith's flesh bubbled and his nerves cooked. He ground his teeth in a pained scream and kneed Shiro's navel. He made contact, forcing the air from Shiro's lungs, and Keith wrenched his arm free. Urging himself onward with precise grace, Keith knocked Shiro's head back using an uppercut and followed it with a kicked to the ribs

Vaguely disoriented, Shiro unexpectedly replied to Keith's assault with a slap. It whipped Keith's face to the side and sent him to his knees.

Blood expelled from Keith's nose, his lip busting on contact. For self-preservation, Keith hid his shock.

"I _will_ kill you," Shiro murmured. His words were dead, dead, dead. "This isn't a game to me, Kogane."

Kogane, not Keith.

To battle Shiro's arm, Keith needed to reach his bedroom. Beneath the bed, in a specialized compartment, his sword was waiting. The blade would tear right through Shiro's otherwise impenetrable limb, and he knew it was his only hope. Hating to back down, Keith lunged away from Shiro, stealing a thrown knife and tucking it away into his empty harness. He darted toward the kitchen and disappeared into the hallway Shiro had come from. At the end of the hallway, the bedroom door and living room door mirrored one another, but that wasn't where he needed to go. Keith launched himself at the front door and tugged it open.

Barefoot, Keith sprinted down the apartment hall and heard Shiro's boots smacking carpet behind him. He had to confuse the man before he could loop back to his apartment and enter his bedroom. That in itself was a gamble, but he couldn't pretend he had options. He needed time to grab the sword. Fifteen seconds max.

The problem with living in a complex full of old people wasn't just the occasional scent of spilled urine, but it was how they couldn't hear anything.

Keith darted toward a narrow stairwell and shoved open its heavy door. He kicked it shut behind him and lamented the broken lock. Keith seized the railing and vaulted, landing three floors down with a hard smack. Once steadied, Keith reached for the nearest metal door only to jerk it back and feel it catch. He stopped dead in his tracks and tried tugging the door again, but nothing gave. Keith parted his lips and shook the handle again only to hear a whistle.

He tilted his head back.

Shiro was leaned over the top floor's railing, looking smug. He pointed his glowing hand at Keith like a gun and 'pulled the trigger.' "Way ahead of you. We're the most compatible in the Altean Sector, remember? I know how that brain of yours works."

"Shiro," Keith tried with caution eating every syllable. "Shiro, if you kill me…"

Keith remembered what he couldn't tell Shiro and sealed his lips.

"Then I'll keep my job," he answered and leapt over the railing, landing in front of Keith with both grace and his bionic arm dimmed. "I'll feel a little less bad about not telling Allura sooner, too."

He strode toward Keith, fearless. Shiro slammed his palm against Keith's chest, forcing the man's back against dated wallpaper. Keith naturally grabbed both sides of Shiro's ribs. He wanted to feel another human body again, wanted Shiro again. Keith realized what he'd done and snapped his hands down as if burned. Shiro laughed at the expense of Keith's pride.

"Fuck you," Keith muttered.

"That never solved much between us, did it?"

Keith clenched his teeth, breathing wrought and thick. Shiro leaned closer to intimidate him, make him as anxious as a trapped rabbit. Keith shoved at Shiro's chest and the words he'd been withholding piled onto his tongue.

The very distress levels Shiro had seen on the computer screen were manifesting, and Keith lifted his hands to press his palms to his eyes, to rasp on air as he fought and fought. Unhinged, Keith suddenly beat his fists against Shiro's chest. His emotions turned inside out, raw and hideous in their sensitivity.

Something about this was wrong. Not in the romantic sense, but it was the scenario. It was the fact Keith was still on his feet.

They could have destroyed one another by now, but Keith felt like they were playing cat and mouse. Shiro wasn't one to play with his kills. It weighed on him too much.

"I can't do anything about this now," Shiro explained, words cold as Keith continued to pound his chest with tightly balled fists. "One of us is going to die, and you made that choice. You could turn around right now and tell me and the entire Altean Sector you're sorry and someone would still have to die."

"You!" Keith screamed and held fast to Shiro's sweatshirt. He yanked him closer, and the words thickened with a sob. "It should be you! I wanted you, Shiro! All I wanted was you! I joined the sector for _you_! I did everything for you, and I never once saw you think about _me_!"

Though still stern, Shiro's expression eased. "I didn't ask that from you."

"Liar. You swayed. You begged. You told me it was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. I did what _you_ wanted, so what is wrong with _me_?" Keith screamed the last sentence, forgetting Shiro was a walking weapon in his distress. He slammed his fist against him again but paused with clawing fingers, letting them scrape down Shiro's chest before he sagged against the wall. "It was never enough."

"It was more than enough."

"Shut up, Takashi," Keith snapped and aggressively combed his fingers through his hair. "Just shut up. You always make yourself in the right. You're never _wrong_. You never have to shoulder any blame or take responsibility for what you do as long as the mission is finished. You —"

"Don't make me do this to you while you're like this."

"Shut up. _Shut up_. Maybe it was enough for you," Keith said, suddenly going cold. He wasn't listening to Shiro. He was leveling his breathing. "But it wasn't enough for me. _You hurt me_!"

Shiro stopped, and he parted his lips, attempted to manifest an excuse. 

"I explained why —"

"What happens after this?" Keith barked, echoing his own question from the night in the kitchen. "When I'm dead, tell me what happens. Do you get a promotion? Will you take over Iverson's post? Does another chapter in your life unfold? Will you finally be happy? Do I get to be an example to every young newcomer who might want to fuck their team leader?" He couldn't withhold the tears, and they streaked down his throat, humiliating him further. "Will they know you were my best friend? Will they know you're the only person I gave anything of myself to? Will you tell them I loved you?"

Shiro cleared his throat, the swallow loud. He blinked and tore his gaze from Keith. "Don't simplify what's happening here."

"Best friend," Keith mocked. "I can't simplify things, but you can call me your best friend."

"You are!" Shiro yelled at the wall, breaking his façade and instantly regretting it. "You're my best friend! You were as everything to me as someone can be in the Altean Sector! Do you know how easy it would've been to _just_ —"

Shiro's voice broke, and Keith's eyes widened. His stare frantically searched Shiro's face, but Shiro sobered himself.

"— to just get rid of you to avoid disasters like this? I called the shots. I could've pulled you from the team. I should have, and I filled out the paperwork, but I couldn't imagine life without you. I tried to balance my responsibilities, Keith. It's not just you in the picture. It's Hunk. It's Pidge. It's Lance."

Keith had a million questions. Had Shiro tried to kick him off the team, Keith knew he would have acted selfishly, wanted them to be together anyway and maintain the team at the same time. Ultimately, a higher up would have found out and ended the team, and Keith knew Team Voltron was the sector's best.

Keith shook his head. "Don't turn this into a technicality. This isn't a fucking technicality. This is _us_."

"It was a technicality," Shiro said, and his dead laugh ghosted between them. "One you would've never agreed to, I know. One I might've not agreed to if I said it out loud and you complained, but it doesn't matter now."

The realization washed over Keith. His expression dimmed. "It doesn't, does it?"

They two men stared one another down in their grief-stricken silence. 

Shiro willed his bionic arm to dim until it was in its sedated form. His fingers curled around Keith's shirt hem, and he roughly pulled Keith toward his chest. They uncertainly looked each other over, assessing their safety and the outlying risks. Shiro let down his guard and glided both hands up Keith's torso.

"I don't want to do this," Shiro admitted. "I don't know if I can."

Keith kissed him.

To show Shiro he wouldn't attack, Keith held tight to Shiro's biceps and gripped, hard.

"We don't have much time, do we?" Keith asked against his mouth.

He didn't get an answer. 

Shiro's thumbs cautiously traced the tops of Keith's pectorals, and as Keith relaxed, Shiro slid them along the man's raised collarbones. His tongue flicked along Keith's front teeth, and Keith inhaled through the kiss, murmuring his attacker's name as heat dripped into his belly like hot syrup. Shiro brushed his hands up Keith's throat and cupped his face, cradling the back of his head with splayed fingers. He petted along Keith's peaked cheekbones, deepening the kiss until he withdrew to speak.

"You're going to kill me."

"No."

"I don't trust you."

"I know."

"I'll probably never trust you again."

Keith returned to the kiss, but it fumbled when his bottom lip trembled. Shiro couldn't bring himself to open his eye and kissed the corner of Keith's mouth.

"I know," Keith whispered.

"God, Keith. This is my fault."

Keith's chest jolted. He opened his mouth against Shiro's, and Shiro groaned in reply, forcing Keith's navel to tighten. Each time they shifted their heads, a wet pop followed and one whispered the other's names, encouraging him to kiss deeper, touch longer. Keith was starved for this, and Shiro didn't seem better off. Keith knew they both understood this was the end of an era. They were stalling inevitable bereavement by savoring their kiss goodbye.

Shiro pushed his hands up Keith's shirt, digits exploring the indentions of Keith's bones and muscles.

Keith's navel pulsed again, and he kissed down to Shiro's chin, tasting the chemical aftershave.

"There's a place we could go, but we need a boat," Keith whispered.

He was resting his cheek beneath the guillotine.

"Being alone with you is a death wish."

But Shiro didn't say no. He grabbed Keith's chin instead and tilted back his head, mouth connecting with Keith's throat.

Beside them, the door handle jostled, but Keith told himself he was hallucinating and self-sabotaging. It shook again, and Keith paused this time, listening to Shiro suckle his throat and groan. A key entered the handle's lock, and expecting assassination, Keith positioned his fist to punch back Shiro's head. He didn't get the chance to strike. Shiro's hand dove between his thighs and cupped, pressing upward and knocking Keith's brain into the clouds. Shiro massaged his hard-on, aggressively stroking the outline through the fabric and making Keith lose his bearing.

Keith shivered and involuntarily bucked his hips. "Fuck, baby. The door —"

"Wherever we go, just make sure I can fuck you stup —"

Creaking with an accompanying shuffle of slippers, the door swung open.

Keith choked on Shiro's name both in warning and arousal, but rather than attack, he froze against the wall.

Standing in the doorway was an old woman Keith recognized as his neighbor. Draped over her arms was a pastel pink shawl and in hand was her tiny laundry basket of freshly done whites. Her key swung from her finger like Death's scythe.

Keith wished Shiro had killed him instead.

Shiro swiftly retracted and lifted both palms as if under arrest.

Together, they looked like the poster for a Lifetime movie. One of Keith's wrists was fried, his other arm was profusely bleeding from a knife wound, and his bottom lip had long since puffed swollen. Not only that, but his face was coated in blood from his nosebleed, and he was sporting a hell of a boner. Shiro's jaw was an ugly purple, mouth bloodied, and it was evident they'd both been crying only seconds ago.

The old lady looked questioningly at Shiro.

Keith exhaled. "It's not what it looks like."

 _Try explaining what it is then_ , Keith dully thought.

"This is just what we're into," Shiro said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite thing is how Grammarly catches my errors in the browser better than in the actual app, so then I have to clean up the text all over again directly before posting. I should get a consistent beta. 
> 
> Anyway, long time, no see on this story. I'm still not sure why I didn't finish it, but I'm going to claim it was because I was busy or something. I think it was actually Alien Sex Fiend's fault. Finding the old plot for this was a pain because it was in a notebook I used this time last year. I broke my brain negotiating this chapter, but then I cried for Keith and Shiro's situation, so I feel a little successful. 
> 
> But enjoy! And thank you all for being so patient. The asks I got on Tumblr about this were unreal. I hate that it didn't happen sooner. It ruled to have some outright fun even if this chapter is heavy on explanations.
> 
> If you want to know about faster updates then hit me up at @leecawrites.

### i.

Predictively, Grandma Neighbor and the Hot White Towels made Shiro softer than cake. Cake seemed gratuitous, too delicious and sweet, so alternatively, she made Shiro crumble like an unrefined meatloaf. Beside Shiro, Keith was the adjoining mashed potatoes, deflated on the plate like a suicidal pancake and much too cold. While both foods were aesthetically compatible, there was nothing exciting about either one, and well, that was about right.

Keith latched onto Shiro's arm, nails cutting through the skin. "We're going now. Sorry, ma'am. We'll try to keep it indoors from now on."

Dripping blood and trembling from adrenaline, Shiro jogged up the stairs, following Keith in raw bewilderment. Neither man said anything until they entered the empty hallway. The stairwell door slammed shut with a metallic  _whack_ , and Shiro rolled his lips between his front teeth. He knew full well he shouldn't find traumatizing an elderly woman funny, but he did.

He wetly choked.

"Don't laugh," Keith warned, lips twitching to mask his own. "She still might call the cops on us. We need to  _move_."

"For all we know, she could be on the level, Keith. Senior citizens' sex lives might be elusive, but they do exist. Have respect for your elders. We'll be there soon enough."

Keith snorted, the sound ripping hard from his nose. Shiro internally attempted to put himself in a sleeper hold. Keith was right. They weren't in the position to laugh.

Feigning mournfulness, Keith sighed. "We soiled those clean towels. She probably turned around to redo them."

"Grandma is going to have a story for her AOL chat rooms."

"Maybe she'll leave me a pie and an empathy letter."

Shiro mimed grabbing and opening a letter. He cleared his throat, inhaled and read. "Dear Keith, I also have a vacuuming latex bed —"

Keith's hair practically lifted off his head. "Stop, Shiro —"

" — and considering we have so much in common, I was wondering if you'd like to discuss gimp suit styles and preferences —"

"I could've let you kill me back there and yet —"

Shiro amplified his voice. " — as I've crocheted one that won't fit over my hyperkyphosis and might fit you —"

"I'll vacuum seal myself to the bed without air  _holes_  — "

"— I only wore it once! There's a small stain, but it should lift with baking soda, so just let me know if you're interested!"

Keith's eyes were all at once wide with dissociating. He was no longer one with the Earth. Really, he was better for it.

Shiro's final words boomed down the hall. "The pie is apple plum! Love, Grandma!"

Quiet settled around them, and as Shiro applied his smug satisfaction with the gross-out, Keith attempted to punch his shoulder. Unfortunately for everyone and God alike, Keith's laughter destabilized him. He planted a hand against the wall for balance.

Daintily folding the letter, Shiro tossed it over his shoulder. "That was really sweet of her, Keith. You should really visit her more often."

Though he tried to hide it, Keith wiped away a tear, smiling. "You're so unattractive."

"I try my hardest, Keith."

Shiro proudly swiped his hands and refocused the moment. "So you said we need to  _move_ , but where are we moving to? Better question, how much of this place is bugged? I'm assuming the aliens know what just happened."

"They're only watching inside the apartment, Mulder. I disabled the hall camera when the neighbors somehow noticed and told the landlord."

"Well, Scully, the Galra always have been shit at security."

"They're too powerful to care." Keith grabbed Shiro's elbow and stopped him, lips shifted to the side in thought. Shiro leaned back, not sure how he was supposed to feel about that assessing stare. It was too often followed by acts of violence. "On the other hand, there's  _you_."

"Iverson is here and watching. He's waiting for me to do exactly what I'm doing right now. From the looks of it, we've got a small window and need to think fast if we're going to get out of here and talk. Until we can go incognito, we're being haunted by both organizations."

"I have an idea."

Keith's ideas were rarely bad, but Shiro knew from experience they weren't orthodox. He waited outside Keith's apartment, leering at the hideous maroon carpet and antiquated paisley wallpaper as if insulted. To distract himself from the sheer ugly, he picked his own brain.

The second he and Keith were off the grid, he needed to ask about his arm and the missing specs. If they could survive up to that point, then they'd be fine. Maybe even for years to come if they smartly used the connections they'd made over the years. They could even disappear.

Keith reappeared wearing cheap slippers and an even cheaper puffy, red coat. On his back was a sword Shiro had never seen before, but that wasn't what concerned him.

"You have to get new threads."

"Don't worry," Keith said and strode down the hall. "That's my first priority."

Keith guided Shiro into the main elevator. In silence, it took them down to the lobby, which Keith waddled across with minimal grace due to the offensive jacket. They turned a sharp corner, approaching an Employees Only door, and Keith let them inside.

"The Galra budget is really unfortunate," Shiro murmured.

"You say that, but it's a wonder the Garrison hasn't gotten us killed yet. It's  _obvious_."

"In plain sight is the best way to hide things."

Surrounded by bright yellow mop buckets and shelves stuffed to the brim with cleaning supplies, there was a rickety brown elevator on the opposite side of the room. Keith stopped in front of it and checked his palm for blood, wiping any remnants on his thigh. He pressed his hand against the wall above an inconspicuous down button, and a purple scanner appeared.

The doors rolled open with a hiss.

"Is this recorded?" Shiro asked, raising his guard. He followed Keith inside and ignored his instinctual fear when the doors shut behind them.

"It registers when I use my hand to enter the elevator, but there's no camera. The employees here still use this thing. Some of the janitors have been here for years. Old people are impossible to slip shit by." Keith crossed his arms and leaned against the wall as the elevator sank. The elevator soon proved to be the slowest one Shiro had ever endured, but Keith thought to break up the monotony. "Statistics show we likely won't survive this."

"Honestly, Keith, I don't even know what we're doing," Shiro admitted, sagging inside his own skin. "But I have questions, and since you haven't killed me yet, I think I know the answers to a few."

"The fact you trust me after I stabbed you —"

"You avoided my vitals," Shiro pointed out.

"That could have been a clumsy move."

Shiro mirrored Keith's stance. "You never miss."

Keith scoffed. "You didn't deserve my mercy."

The doors opened onto a downstairs garage so cold Shiro's breath clouded beneath his nose. On the farthest side, a concealed concrete door rolled open, revealing Keith's dustless Range Rover and research suite. The computers surpassed anything Shiro had seen in the Altean Sector, but what steered his focus the most was the opposite wall. Displayed as a grid, guns and foreign weapons Shiro recognized as Galra tech floated like stunned ghosts.

"Welcome to my den," Keith said, stealing a cigarette and lighter from his work table. He lit up and strode toward a metal armoire. Keith smacked a palm above the handle, and the doors peeled open, revealing a modest, but expensive, collection of designer clothing.

"It's nice." Shiro ambled along the concrete floor. He approached the weapons and inspected. "But totally unnecessary. Nothing happens in Alaska."

"You happened in Alaska."

"I'm flattered."

Keith yanked out wooden hanger after wooden hanger, impressing Shiro with his aesthetic certainty. He draped the fabric over the car hood, and after hunting down an ashtray, stripped his controversial cloud jacket and basic shirt. Shiro knew he shouldn't stare at Keith's chiseled stomach, but when Keith's eyes met his, Shiro smiled. His smile asked a question, and Keith shrugged, returning the knowing look as if that answered it well enough. Keith broke eye contact to tug on a thin bulletproof vest and Versace sweatshirt that shined like gilded mahogany.

"Considering they're not surveilling," Shiro said, shamelessly watching Keith glide skintight pants over his boxer briefs, "I don't know how nervous I am about the Galra."

Keith tied back his hair and returned to the closet for shoes. "Don't underestimate them."

"Wear the riding boots. The knee-high ones," Shiro suggested. He continued with the previous thought. "Was that your smooth way of telling me not to underestimate you? I won't lie, Keith. You're one hot villain. You took Bond Boy and transformed it into its own boss."

"I shouldn't be surprised you find the villain trope hot. You've always had tacky tendencies."

"I'm only human."

As Keith pulled on his boots, Shiro paid special attention to his shapely calves and their unassuming strength. Fully aware he'd met matchsticks stronger than his resilience against Keith's sex appeal, Shiro figured as long as they messed around one more time, then he wouldn't feel too bad about Keith gutting him in the end. That thought passed, and he rubbed his mouth, wondering how much it would cost to enroll in electroshock therapy.

Keith wrapped a scarf around his throat, following it with leather gloves and a toboggan. Dressed in designer and ready to spill blood, Keith picked up his half-finished cigarette and slid on Prada sunglasses. He approached Shiro, and like a curious dog, circled him.

Shiro swept his gaze down Keith's frame. The next words just happened. "Only human and an idiot for not making us official when I could have."

Keith raised his sunglasses, and unmoved by the confession, sucked in a long drag from his cigarette. He shot two streams of smoke from his nostrils and dropped the frames.

"Yeah. You are."

 

### ii.

Keith had questions for Shiro, but as he drove toward a private dock owned by someone who owed him a hell of a favor, he had to ask  _himself_  questions.

Such as, was Shiro's dick really _that_ bomb?

Keith was afraid to answer that. If he did, then he'd likely hate himself more than he already did, and the last thing he needed to do was cry in front of Shiro again.

"God," Keith said under his breath.

He had to get a grip. He was about to pour lava on corruption spanning through two powerful organizations and here he was preoccupied with love's validity.

Shiro didn't let that fly under the radar. "Say it."

"No."

Keith licked his front teeth, feeling his belated shame. All he wanted was two boxes of Swiss Rolls so that he could anxiously pick off the chocolate shell with his lips.

He didn't miss Shiro  _that_  much. Why should he? After spending the last several years making him feel like hotdog filling, Shiro didn't deserve his sweaty yearning. Their relationship wasn't even the big picture, and the forgiving adrenaline in the stairwell was long gone. Keith was pissed and knew he was in the right. Shiro just happened to be a parasitic emotional tie to the platforms he had to climb in order to benefit the greater good of mankind. He was a good ally and had been the perfect tool to prove his devotion to the Galra Empire.

"If this is going to work, then we have to communicate," Shiro suddenly said.

Keith shot him a look that could have cut a lesser man's throat. "Why wouldn't you date me?"

Lifting a hand in surrender, Shiro acknowledged defeat. "How far are we?"

Keith sank, chewing his pout. "An hour."

Before hitting the road, they used a machine that temporarily disabled all trackers in a fifty-mile radius. It bought them a head start, but Keith knew it was nothing to a seasoned veteran like Iverson.

After a suffocating silence, Keith turned the SUV onto a rocky road. It was caked with ice and snow, but Keith barely registered the danger. Trees swaddled by white snow rose taller and taller around them as the car jostled. To entertain himself, Shiro thumbed through Keith's playlists. Keith reminded himself to toss his phone before they got too close to the dock.

"Is this a Shiro Sucks Playlist?"

Keith was too well aware there was no god.

His hand shot out for his phone, but Shiro jerked it back, eyes drinking in the tracks. Keith wondered what it would mean for the world if he drove them into a ditch, shot Shiro and then shot himself.

Shiro exhaled, suspiciously dreamy. "You have great taste in music."

"I practice knife throwing to those songs."

Shiro's earnest laughter reminded Keith how the man had landed his job in the first place. Nothing could faze him.

He showed Keith he'd stopped reading the playlist, and Keith unclenched his asshole. Really, he understood Shiro's coping mechanisms. In the stairwell, Shiro had been vulnerable, remorseful and in pain. Now they were facing death, so nothing was real, and Keith wondered what it must be like to 'laugh in the face of danger' like Simba. It contrasted so heavily with their private lives Keith figured it was no wonder he himself had gone off the deep end.

Who was Shiro then?

In his heart of hearts, Keith knew Shiro was the man he had fallen in love with in college. The compassionate and thoughtful person ready to encourage him be it with words or a hot lunch when everything inside Keith ran arctic cold, and back then, it often did. More often than not, Shiro would take him out drinking, and in half-baked clubs with subpar music, they pounded tequila shots and danced around one another and falling in love. His family was traditional, and Keith only had masked uncles who sometimes sent him compensating checks.

"We're going to have to disable our microchips," Keith said.

He had to stop dwelling on them. They weren't in a situation where Keith could continue to be all nerve endings. He blamed himself for letting Shiro be his greatest source of feelings.

Shiro rubbed the back of his neck. "It's attached to our spines. We're not going to remove them without invasive surgery."

"I know."

They drove off the grid for another several minutes before Keith parked the car in the middle of a mountain guarded field. He noticed Shiro's uncertainty rise, and Keith touched the man's bicep, smoothing his fingers along his shoulder and letting them creep toward the spot where Shiro's microchip hid beneath his skin. Invasive or not, Keith knew they had to.

Shiro's eyes darted to the side mirror, anger rising. "There is no getting it out."

"Take off your shirt, Shiro."

Shiro's eyes sharpened even more, but so did Keith's. Whenever Shiro's team leader persona manifested, Keith was either thrilled or repulsed. Today it was the latter.

"You're going to kill me if you try," Shiro insisted, articulating nice and slow for the class. "The thing has legs that dig into muscle tissue unless disabled by the Altean Sector."

"Trust me, Shiro. I won't let you die."

Shiro delivered a skeptical look, and Keith nodded with a hushed 'right,' acknowledging that request was asking a lot. They had maimed one another only minutes ago, and now that the adrenaline was boiling out, his blistered hand was radiating mind-numbing pain. The only reason it didn't hurt more was because Shiro's weaponized fist had evaporated his nerves.

Keith tried again. "Trust that I don't want to die."

Shiro hissed as if that were an even more daunting task and Keith decked his arm, digging in his knuckles afterward. Shiro muttered a startled 'ow' but conceded to Keith's will. He heaved a dramatic sigh and stripped his scarf and jacket.

As Shiro's shirt lifted over his head, Keith reminded himself Shiro was molten garbage not even vulture could love. Molten, unlovable garbage with spectacular back muscles and scars Keith had tongued both as they bled and after they healed into leathery pink stripes.

Would he ever understand why he was so horny for an utter fucking disaster?

Keith murdered those lascivious thoughts and retrieved the first aid kit from beneath the backseat. He popped it open, neatly gathering gauze, an electric cauterizer and sanitizing wipes. He fished a pocket knife from his jacket pocket and dropped it onto the pile.

"If I do you first," Keith reasoned, "then you have to survive so you can remove mine."

"Are you reassuring me or yourself?" Shiro asked, having already emptied himself out in preparation for what Keith guessed was death's sweet kiss.

"You don't want me to answer that."

To be honest, he had no idea what he was doing. Advanced first aid and anatomy lessons were taught and retaught in the Altean Sector, but that didn't mean Keith had confidence in operating anywhere near someone's spine. The lulling time didn't help either. Keith worked much better when there was a gun pressed against either his forehead or dick.

All Keith _really_  knew was he had a five-minute window to fillet Shiro, use the cauterizer to shock the microchip to death, hope it retracted its legs and then rip it out before smacking on gauze. Had this been six months ago, then Shiro would have even won a good boy sucker.

"Just do it," Shiro snapped, irritation inflating on top of fear. "But don't get blood on the Versace. You've ruined enough of my clothes for one lifetime."

Keith didn't get blood on the Versace. He got something better.

When the knife dipped through Shiro's skin, Shiro punched the car door, denting it. Mid-cut, Keith had reached for Shiro's bangs and steadied him.

"Jesus Christ on a cross, Keith," Shiro darkly whispered. "What are you doing back there? Playing cat's cradle with my skin flaps?"

"You lost an arm and this is what makes you whine?"

With blood oozing down one hand and the other holding the cauterizer, Keith smiled, sickly satisfied and unbothered by this. Shiro clamped his mouth shut. The way he wrinkled his nose like a snarling dog rang through Keith like a wind chime, but Keith sidelined his sadist tendencies. He pushed aside the bubbling blood, collecting it with gauze over and over.

Each wipe revealed the chip, and Keith's stare warily flickered to the cauterizer. Knowing they were counting seconds, Keith lowered it to the tiny square, noting the chip's subtle glow. He held his breath and lightly tapped. A barely audible zap resonated, and Shiro grunted, hard.

The microchip's blue light flickered and died. Its legs shot up, and after a heart-stopping pause, curled inward like a smacked beetle.

Shiro shuddered. "Son of a —"

"All done," Keith said, patting Shiro's dense shoulder and leaving behind a red print.

He massaged his temples, breathing again. "I can't believe I'm not dead."

Keith flicked the chip into the air with his blade's tip and caught it. He presented the chip to Shiro along with the blade. "My turn. Try not to get hard."

Shiro took the offerings. "No promises."

"Pig," Keith said, berating himself for the fond tone. "Be quick."

Once stripped and settled with his back toward Shiro, Keith lifted his ponytail and braced himself for the burn. Shiro sanitized the blade using a wipe and lighter. Growing impatient, Keith glanced over his shoulder, and Shiro gripped him by the crown, making Keith grunt.

_Don't you fucking dare like it, you sick slut._

Shiro subtly dug his nails into his scalp, and Keith parted his lips.

The warm blade settled against his skin. Keith licked his upper-lip, anticipating the sting, borderline wanting it. To limit shock, Shiro sliced with uncanny speed, barely letting the initial peeling burn sink in before slicing again. Keith's skin split once, twice, thrice, and he nearly cracked a tooth, squeezing the seat beneath him and huffing. Shiro didn't speak, pressing gauze to the initial rush of blood. Using the knife's tip, he flipped the skin like a door.

Surprising them both, Keith screamed. He glared from the corners of his eyes and rasped.

Shiro gracelessly dug for the microchip, tearing through flesh with wet crunches. "Told you it hurt."

"I'm not screaming at that!" Keith decided not to mention Shiro's unorthodox cuts. Rather, he pointed at his Fendi jacket. "Are you  _kidding_ me?"

Dotted across the left breast was a condemning red spray.

Shiro screamed, too.

### iii.

_Everything about this sucks_ , Shiro decided as they boarded a forest green speedboat. Its engine was pathetic and leather seats a guilty cream. If someone wanted to pursue them in it, then they were dead.  _It's cold, Keith hates me, and I have no retirement now. Fantastic._

Their carriage was tied to a dry-rotted dock, but there was no house in sight, not even a smokestack in the distance.

Shiro asked who had helped them, but Keith wouldn't say, claiming there were some things that still needed to remain classified. Shiro padlocked his thoughts, and after dressing in warmer gear provided by their guardian boat angel, deposited himself in the driver's seat.

"We'll get there in three days," Shiro said, sighing with every word.

"Better three days than dead in the water."

With Keith's point made, Shiro drove them down the Knik Arm, neck throbbing and nose hairs froze. Keith had mapped their route to a no-name island with a cabin but didn't give details about their temporary abode. Luxury was a secondary issue, though. They needed a plan and to assess their resources without the risk of being assassinated. Shiro also needed to finally learn about his arm, which was more and more becoming an aggravating secret.

As they bobbed along the black water, Keith used Shiro's phone to call Pidge. Shiro glanced at him in time to see him smile at their voice. The easiness in Keith's eyes took Shiro back to college, and the nostalgia manifested as an ache that overpowered his distrust.

"They're going to forward you files," Keith said, handing the phone back to Shiro. "I told them to call Lance and hack Iverson's records, but they didn't sound happy about it."

"They'll manage. I hate that we're putting them at risk like this."

"We're a team," Keith said, but Shiro heard the doubt. "They'll understand."

The island was no bigger than three city blocks and shrouded in woodlands. Beneath a cliff, a watery cave had been fashioned into an underground dock. They parked, climbed an endless flight of icy wooden stairs, and with Keith leading the way, started along an unbeaten path. The walk wasn't technically long, but by the time they stumbled upon their modest lodgings, Shiro's few slivers of revealed skin were one wrong turn away from devastating frostbite.

"Not the prettiest, but she'll do," Shiro said, much too bright. He chalked it up to relief. "Can you feel your fingers? I can't enough to pick a lock."

"I have a key." Keith jogged ahead, skidding to a halt on the slick porch. "It was on the boat."

The aged cabin made a lunchbox feel spacious. It was a one bedroom that would have been better off as a studio, but there was central air and a generous firewood shed. Shiro didn't have time for the thermostat to decide whether or not it wanted to work, and as Keith inspected the house for bugs and cameras, he gathered armfuls of wood. With his bionic hand, he was able to start a fire in the meager wood stove, but he didn't remove his scarf until it was blazing.

"Iverson probably won't find us for twenty hours," Keith estimated.

"Enough time to sleep and think."

Shiro's phone pinged and he checked his notifications. It was an email from the private server engineered by Lance and Pidge. Shiro glanced at Keith who had found stale Raisin Bran. He shoveled handful after handful between his lips, suspiciously staring out a window. Shiro lifted his phone and whistled, and Keith devoured another mouthful before joining him.

"Pidge got back to us, so it's time to start talking."

Keith plopped down beside Shiro and watched him open the message. Shiro ignored the way Keith's warm bicep pressed against his.

Pidge's message was an attached a document with one forewarning sentence.

_These were not the specs I thought I found._

"That's comforting," Shiro murmured.

"I know what this is."

The grainy scans appeared in a PDF. Shiro zoomed in, squinting and recognized them as a classified document addressed from the Altean Sector to a location somewhere outside Las Vegas. Shiro didn't know about a sector connection in Las Vegas since Las Vegas was too cursed to care about, but the thought was swiftly sideswiped by who the letter first addressed.

"Honerva," Shiro said in awe.

He felt Keith's eyes carefully roam his face. "This is the letter I found that started everything."

Honerva had been an Altean scientist during the mid-80s. Known for turning her back on the organization and going out in a blazing glory, her story was legendary, a regular James Bond movie much like Keith's predicament. For reasons still unknown to even Allura, Honerva had taken her research and fled after making a discovery even the likes of Sam Holt couldn't condone. The discovery was sealed off, but it was rumored she found amnesty among the Galra. Not once had Shiro seen proof of the latter. It was more likely she'd been killed.

Shiro carefully read every word, but the longer he read, the colder his hands became. There was no fire on Earth that could have warmed him when he spotted Iverson's signature.

"The Altean Sector is giving the Galra humans in exchange for technology," Shiro whispered. "In exchange for quintessence."

"Live humans," Keith added. "Which I didn't realize until directly before I left for this godforsaken city."

Processing the information was making Shiro's brain hemorrhage. Everything he'd been taught about the super medicine known as quintessence was a cover-up. Shiro had to pass Keith his phone and talk through what he had just learned. Otherwise, the shock would flip him inside out and he would go AWOL in an entirely different manner.

"Fact-checking," Shiro warned.

Keith nodded, knowing what he meant. "Go for it."

"Iverson said they gave bodies for the quintessence in my arm, but my arm is powered by organic electricity. Pidge, Hunk and I went over the sentry specs and prototype together. Quintessence is a code word for reparative technology, Keith. Real quintessence is hypothetical dark energy, not an element we can harness. It's what's responsible for expanding the universe. You can't embody a scalar field and stick it inside an arm."

Sucking in a remedying breath, Keith gathered his thoughts.

"It's not  _that_  quintessence. The sector told us it was made in an Altean lab for a reason." Keith scrolled down the PDF, stopping on the new specs "When they say quintessence, they mean the fifth element quintessence, which Zarkon and Honerva are testing on human beings in order to gauge human evolution. At some point, the Galra want to breed with humans, but the empire sustains on quintessence. If humans can't adapt to the element, then they're going to suck our planet dry for slave labor and bleed out the planet's core."

"We got quintessence from the Galra. I thought — we were told they stole the technology from us."

"Anything to placate humans, Shiro. The truth would have sent everyone into a frenzy. Technically, it did — Alfor was assassinated for it."

Shiro cleared his throat, struck by empathy. "Allura killed Alfor."

"I know," Keith said, words faltering. "I almost got caught when I found out what they did to cover their tracks, but…" Keith trailed off and returned to their fact check. "What you need to know, Shiro, is you are the first living quintessence guinea pig to live on Earth. The Galra consider you the perfect test subject. You've bonded with quintessence in a way they could never have dreamed of. My mission's objective was to lure you in with feelings and make you a sympathizer for the Human Division. Once retrained, you would be their golden boy and convince humans to be lab rats of their own volition, easing human and Galra bonds."

Shiro's stomach cramped. Already, his brain was sculpting a plan. For once, he appreciated the extent of his compartmentalizing training. "When did they restart the Human Division?"

"Technically, they never ended it." That truth forced Shiro to inspect Keith. How Keith kept this to himself for so long Shiro would never know. He thought to say something, but Keith had a final word. "They're grooming me to lead the Human Division, Shiro."

As much as Shiro wanted to trust him, Keith's powerful position among the Galra made Shiro wary. If he were a better man, then he would detain Keith right there. It didn't make sense for them to shove Keith, a Galra rookie into an important role. Something was amiss, but Shiro could rationalize Keith was being played, too. Keith really was their best bait.

Shiro knew they had to run, but his ethical stance wouldn't let him. This was a death wish, though. The Altean Sector and Galra Empire combined was an unstoppable force.

"We can't do this alone," Shiro said, careful not to let Keith think he was too unnerved. "But if we don't know who is and isn't in on this, then there's no way to get help. This circuit could be huge if Iverson is dealing with Honerva."

"Outside me, and now you, Team Voltron is oblivious." Keith opened the email client to compose a response to Pidge. "Allura doesn't know either, obviously. I can show you those records if we can get to Lance's hacking suite. I'm asking Pidge what they want to do."

"We have to tell Allura." Shiro glanced outside. The sun had set, which meant they were officially stuck there for the night. "Even if it's going to be hard."

Shiro couldn't fathom killing his own father. Keith snapped his fingers, ushering in Shiro's attention.

"We need to get the team together first, then contact Allura. Neither one of us can waltz into the Altean Sector, Shiro. Allura is always on the grid. You know that."

Keith was right, but Shiro's brain was attaching everywhere else. He hadn't considered the most important detail in all of this.

Shiro snatched Keith's arm, sharply inhaling. "Keith, what did you think you were going to do on your own? What if we hadn't met like this? What was your actual plan?"

"Assassination," Keith said, cool and contained as if he had accepted this inevitability long ago. "I was going to climb the ranks, board Zarkon's ship and detonate it."

"Kill yourself."

There was no point in posing it as a question.

Keith didn't offer Shiro an omission of guilt. He stared him headlong instead, and Shiro closed his eyes, wrung out by weeks of guilt. Before taking that defining leap off Shiro's balcony, Keith had mentioned he didn't contribute to the team. He considered himself a bed warmer when everyone, including Shiro, knew he was so much more than Shiro's emergency replacement and arm candy.

This selfless act was Keith's love letter to the world and final 'fuck you' to Shiro.

"Did you think I would figure this out?" Shiro asked in earnest. Nothing was funny anymore. Even his infamous coping mechanism had resigned. "Answer me."

Keith steeled himself to the point of aloofness. He dared to smile. "You're a good man, Shiro. You would have tried to martyr yourself if I wasn't in a convenient place, and really, I don't know what I would have done. Maybe I would have let you kill me."

Shiro swiftly scooted closer. He latched onto Keith's face with both hands and held him, not firm, but weakly and shaking with rage. "I can't trust everything you've told me here until we reach Lance's suite, but know this is me at my rawest before God when I say I couldn't and never will be the one who kills you."

"Do you really love me?" Keith asked, leaning into the hold. His words were cut and dry, not wrought as Shiro's had been.

"Why do you think I'm here?"

Whether or not Keith believed him, Shiro didn't know. Keith said nothing else, gingerly taking Shiro's hands into his and lowering. Keith finished his reply to Pidge, and with the topic dropped, went on to discuss boating to a secluded place and helicoptering to a private plane where they could then return to LA. All business and evidently too afraid to indulge in Shiro's half-assed confession, Keith wouldn't meet Shiro's eyes. Pidge relayed whatever Keith sent to Lance and Hunk, and the inbox was soon overloaded with the text equivalent to shouting.

Lance's message was Shiro's least favorite.

_Admit it, Keith. You didn't have to stab Shiro. That was to make yourself feel better._

Keith's reply was the worst. It was several knife emojis, a sparkling emoji and nothing more.

"Did you have to stab me?" Shiro hesitantly asked.

Keith picked at his teeth. "Do you really wanna know?"

He hesitated and swept his gaze to the side. "No."

There was only one bed, of course. Shiro offered to sleep on the couch and give Keith space, but Keith looked him over once, reiterated he wasn't a total idiot and claimed he knew Shiro would spy on him anyway. Shiro couldn't refute this, and shrugging, let himself into the bedroom and chose a side. Keith had a point, which was why, while Keith checked the cabinets one last time, Shiro slipped a gun beneath the mattress just in case.

Keith reentered the bedroom and unzipped his boots. He took one look at the green flannel comforter and grimaced. "Wherever we end up, we have to make sure they have food."

Pilfering through a dresser drawer, Shiro found sweatpants and purple college sweatshirts from years long gone. He tossed a set at Keith and shucked himself free of weighty layers.

"You might be used to it, but today's reveal killed my appetite."

"It's a health necessity. I'm not hungry either."

Shiro flopped onto the bed. The mattress was terrible. "That would be a first."

There was too much uncertainty for them to go to bed talking the way they once did, and Shiro longed for those moments he had taken for granted while trying to do the right thing. He could masquerade as a player or exploit himself as a monster with commitment issues, but the fact of the matter was he had been trying to avoid exactly what happened. There was no rationale that could atone for it, but when he turned his head and looked at Keith, he wanted to find something that might convince Keith his choices had never been about his worth.

He didn't expect to catch Keith looking at him, too. His eyes were thoughtful, afraid in a way Shiro hadn't seen since their early twenties when Keith's depression existed between them like dark matter.

"I love you," Keith whispered.

Shiro's fingers inched across the bed for Keith's hand.

As whirlwinds do, Shiro didn't have a chance to anticipate the moment Keith rolled on top of him, straddling his lap with a confident weight. Shiro's bionic hand smacked against Keith's bicep, rapidly drawing him near, and their mouths met with a mutual groan. Hot and hungry and boiling over with that insidious foreboding Shiro couldn't shake, he fisted Keith's hair.

_I should have married you._

Tugging Keith's shirt overhead, Shiro dragged his fingertips along the man's spine, and for several blissful minutes, he pretended to believe they might make it out alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, do you guys trust either one of them? I'm so curious, haha. Also, I can't wait to put Shiro in a black latex Galra suit to match Keith's red one. I hope the story goes there. I never know. These things write themselves.
> 
> I do know the next chapter features drunk fashion and minor gun kink. Thumbs up.


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